Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Child, oh child, just heed my story!
If you won't now, you will be sorry.
When comes the winter with snow and ice,
close your windows and close your eyes!
Or The Hunt, The Hunt will be your demise.

Child, oh child, just heed my word.
When there's a clip-clopping in the dirt
while winter storm from dark clouds cries
and lightning bolts strike up in the skies
Then The Hunt, The Hunt could be your demise!

Child, oh child, don't heed their call!
The Hell Hunter comes, he comes for us all.
And with him The Wild Hunt, all masks and disguise.
On wind and on horseback they fall and rise.
For The Hunt, The Hunt shall be your demise.

Child, oh child, just heed my clues!
When they take you, you will lose
your home, your name, all earthly ties;
even your life, a sacrifice.
As The Hunt, The Hunt is now your demise.

Child, oh child, don't you heed my sorrow?
You'll ride today as you'll ride tomorrow.
‘Forever’ the king of hell’s bind implies.
Why didn't you listen to my advice?
Since The Hunt, The Hunt has been your demise.”

Narcissa Malfoy stopped singing and softly brushed a last, stray tear from her five-year-old son's resting face. He had finally fallen asleep. She let her gaze wander through the big windows when lightning lit the room for a split-second. It really was a bad thunderstorm tonight.

Chapter Text

“You're doing it wrong.”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut. Hard. “Why don't you do it then?”

He didn't even look when his old school rival came to stand next to him. Of course Potter had to be here. Even though it was Christmas Day and the boy wonder was supposed to be somewhere homely, surrounded by friends (and probably, adoring fans). At least today Draco had hoped to be lucky enough not to have to look at those unsightly glasses.

Look he did though, when Potter lifted his wand and weaved a complicated figure into the air: left, right, diagonally across, upwards curve and tiny clockwise loops fizzling out towards the end.

While Draco groaned inwardly upon realising that, indeed, he had been doing it wrong (he'd done counterclockwise loops, no wonder it hadn't worked properly), he took in his companion's appearance. Potter looked tired. He always looked tired these days, but today even more so than normally. His skin had an unnaturally dull pallor to it and there were dark circles under his eyes.

Draco had to smile bitterly. He himself probably didn't look much better. That's why they were here after all, out in the freezing cold, in the fast approaching dusk, on Christmas.

“Got it?” Potter asked with a slightly arched eyebrow.

“Yes, yes.” Draco took a deep breath, willing away his irritation. “This time together? On three.”

He counted quietly under his breath and they raised their wands simultaneously to cast the Rearrangement Spell. This time it worked and the bricks that had lain strewn across the frost covered grass floated into the air to re-form the southern outer wall of Hogwarts Castle they once had been.

It held for a few seconds before it crumbled.

Neither Draco nor Potter batted an eyelash at that. Rather did they both get into position to repeat the spell as many times as necessary. They were used to it by now. Since Hogwarts was an ancient building and its own magic made the repair process take longer than anticipated, spells on the castle's matter often needed several repeats to stick.

While they were settling into a rhythm of reciting the incantation, Draco’s thoughts wandered back, wondering how it had come to be that he now was peacefully working side by side with Harry Potter as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

After The Battle of Hogwarts in the summer of this year, things had been chaotic. Draco and his parents had been arrested and charged with various Death Eater related acts. They had been tried in front of the freshly reassembled Wizengamot and would have probably all been sent to Azkaban if Potter himself had not made a surprise appearance and spoken for the defence. He had pointed out Draco's age and reluctance, Lucius' indifference towards the Dark Lord's cause just before the end and Narcissa's lie that had effectively saved Potter's life. Luckily for the Malfoys, his word held a lot of weight within the wizarding community nowadays (and also Lucius' inside information had been highly welcome).

That had been how, one sunny day in early summer, the Malfoy family had found themselves acquitted of their war crimes. And while coming home to the Manor after dwelling in holding cells for weeks should have been the best treat, they all had felt an uneasiness that wouldn't go away. Too tainted was the house, with all the shadows of the past haunting it — and them.

So his parents had decided to start anew and to permanently relocate to their summer residence in France. They both had felt they needed the physical distance to work through everything they'd lost: their beliefs, their dignity, so many friendships and of course a sister and a sister-in-law.

Draco had been a bit surprised when neither of his parents had tried to make him go with them. His mother had smiled sadly and kissed him on both cheeks. His father had simply patted him on the back. And then they had left.

And Draco had moved into the gatehouse on the Manor's grounds.

It hadn't been that he couldn't have used some time abroad. But for Draco, going away at that point in his life would have meant never coming back. In his cell, he had had time enough to think about things in general and he had realised that so far he had always picked the easy way out. Yet this one time he hadn't wanted to be a coward, he'd wanted to stick it out, get his life together.

So he had stayed.

As days had gone by he had started roaming the streets of Muggle towns, walking along cliffs, wandering cross-country though Britain's landscape. Hours and hours.

Next he had sat down in a still-intact room in the otherwise heavily destroyed Hogwarts, full of former schoolmates who mostly hated him, to take his N.E.W.T.s. The school had announced that despite everything, any of the seventh-years who wanted to sit the exam should be allowed to. Naturally, everyone had come. Thus the tests had been ridiculously easy in consideration of half of the test takers' inability to partake in classes during the past year. Draco had passed all subjects with flying colours. Obviously.

After he had got his wand back from Potter following the trial, Draco could've tried to find employment somewhere, but he didn't need the money and he also highly doubted that someone would actually hire a former Death Eater.

It wasn't a priority.

What Draco needed was... something else. Something of which he wasn't sure himself what it was. Just that he needed to find it. Preferably alone. Because, while everyone else was trying to get over the war, Draco was still in battle. With himself, his own demons, his guilt.

He had started avoiding big crowds. Even getting together with his old school friends was tense sometimes. In that case though, there were other factors in play as well.

When he did meet people, however, it always had a purpose. Like that time in July he had decided to visit Hogwarts to talk to the staff. Not about anything specific, just... he still had bad dreams and he had convinced himself that the castle was a good place to find distraction, maybe even closure. After all, dissecting the hell that had been Carrow-led Hogwarts last year was something best to be done with people who had been there as well. Still, it had cost him quite some effort to gather his courage and face his former teachers. But he had done it anyway. And curiously enough the conversations that he had dreaded had turned out rather well.

He had also found something meaningful to occupy his time with: helping with the reconstruction of Hogwarts Castle.

It had been a one-time thing, at first. Professor Sprout had roped him into helping with the reorganisation of the green houses while they had chatted. But soon Draco had found that that had been fun and had felt right.

So he came back. A lot.

In fact, working hard at rebuilding walls, sorting scattered things, fishing debris out of the lake, repairing paintings, planting new trees at the edge of the Forest and such helped keeping the nightmares at bay, since he would fall into bed too tired to dream after a day spent fixing Hogwarts.

Draco had become one of the major 'patch workers' of the castle (or Patchers as they called themselves). Those were people who came to repair things that had been damaged in The Battle. But he hadn't been the only one. Lots of folk had come to help. Mostly current and former students and parents, but also others. Everyone had worked together to make Hogwarts inhabitable again so that the school could open its doors in September. And with united strength they had managed somehow — only barely though, for Hogwarts' innermost resilience against outward influences was formidable.

However, when the school year had started and summer had come to an end, people had stopped coming. Fewer helpers had returned, their numbers becoming less and less, until it was only a handful of regulars.

Draco was one of them.

And strangely, so was Auror-in-training, busy-with-charity-events, my-life-is-so-great Golden Boy Potter.

It had been annoying. At least until Draco had recognised the signs. How Potter showed up just as late in the night as Draco to fix a corridor after a bad nightmare. How he relaxed doing simple, repetitive work during which he could turn off his thoughts. How he was always only ever hungry after the work had been finished. And how he liked to fall into the easy banter they were so good at and which had by now become more lighthearted and less scalding.

Potter may have won the war but he surely hadn't won the dreamless-lottery.

And with the unspoken acknowledgement that they were both screwed up and were both trying to move past that, they had settled into a quiet truce that saw them often working together these days.

Which was how Draco found himself here, on Christmas, fixing a wall with Potter.

“So... no plans for tonight, Malfoy?”

Left. Right.

Draco glanced at Potter. “You're here, too.”

Diagonally across.

Silence. Then: “Yeah, I... it is just hard to be at The Burrow after everything. Especially on Christmas. I mean, everyone's trying their best to act cheerful, but... there are these pauses... in between... where his laughter would have been.” Potter swallowed and Draco felt the sudden urge to reach out and touch his shoulder.

But he didn't.

Upwards curve.

It was like a silent agreement between them. While working together they would say whatever they couldn't say to others. Drop all pretence and be miserable, without being scrutinised or criticised or babied or pitied. Just letting it all out. Like talking into a void.

If anyone knew, they might find it weird that it was Draco that Potter confided in, of all people, and vice versa. But for them, it had come naturally. After all, they had literally gone through fire together.

Potter cleared his throat. “And it's still a bit awkward between Ginny and me. You know. After the breakup. Even though it was amiable and all.”

Tiny clockwise loops...

Draco flinched ever so slightly. While he was all right with not-talking about all things war-related, he wasn't particularly interested in discussing Potter's (lack of) love life. Too vivid was the memory of that day some weeks back when Potter had arrived with an explosive mood, being snappy and insufferable until he had finally roped Draco into a fist fight after provoking him on purpose. All of which had ended in a highly uncomfortable Draco with an armful of Potter.

Not that they never cried to each other. Tears made guest appearances often enough. But it never went that far, never to DEFCON Hugging Emergency.

Just that once.

And Draco wasn't especially keen on a repeat performance.

...fizzling out.

The wall finally stayed a wall and both young men lowered their wands.

“What's next?” Potter procured a bottle of water out of thin air (show-off!), took a sip and offered it to Draco.

“Well, there's a moving flight of stairs near the Hufflepuff common room that apparently glitches a lot. I was thinking of having a look at it.”

“Sounds good to me. I could use some warming up about now.”

Indeed, the wind had picked up, making the cold air almost painful to inhale. And there were dark clouds visible against the almost black sky now. A storm was coming.

Draco shivered. “Let's go then.”

“And maybe have some eggnog after, in the kitchens? It is Christmas after all.” Potter bumped his shoulder into Draco's (something Draco didn't appreciate – Potter being overly chummy) as they started towards the hidden side entrance for patch workers on the east side of the castle.

“Really? I hadn't noticed,” said Draco dryly while making a show of eyeing the humongous Christmas decorations all along the windows they were passing by.

Potter snickered and then smiled. “Merry Christmas, Malfoy.”

A beat.

Eight years of acquaintance, yet this was a first.

Despite the increase of wintry gusts Draco suddenly felt a spark of warmth blossom in his stomach. And a lump formed in his throat, which he quickly cleared.

“Merry Chris–”

A deafening thunderclap made them both jump. And suddenly the air was filled with noise, terrible, screeching, maddening noise: rattling, screaming, hooting, yelling, wailing, groaning and grunting from a hundred throats. Followed by alluringly wild melodies and the din of thousands of sweet silver bells.

Draco pressed his hands onto his ears. What was happening? He turned around just in time to see a procession of the weirdest kind, illuminated by a flash of lightning: Seemingly floating through the air, dozens and dozens of people of all ages – many on horseback, many afoot, some dressed in strange costumes, some almost naked –, accompanied by flocks of dogs, pigs, seafowl and owls, that were following in a long, winding line after a single tall rider on a white horse, were sharply contrasted against the momentarily lit night sky.

And while Draco's eardrums seemed to burst in the onslaught of clamour, he could faintly hear an underlying tune: “Ho ho ho! Out of the way, get off the road, so that no one is abased!”

Draco reacted on instinct. He dropped to the ground, hands covering his eyes. “Potter! Get down! It's The Wild Hunt! Don't look! Don't look!”

But the ever-rising cacophony of sounds made his words almost inaudible even to himself. “DON'T LOOK!”

The roaring reached its peak and Draco felt as if the rushing of the winter storm's gales were trying to blow him away. He groped blindly for Potter to pull him down. But Draco's hands came up empty. So, he waited. Trapped within the storm for what he experienced like an eternity, until, in the end, the turbulence had died down to nothing but a soft murmur, stray snowflakes falling gently.

And when he finally could lift his head again, he was alone in the quiet night. Potter was nowhere to be seen. The Hunt had taken him.

Chapter Text

“Headmistress!”

Clonk!

Minerva McGonagall spilt some hot tea onto her tartan dressing gown and only her innate Britishness stopped her from cursing out loud. She did, however, give Draco a very stern look when he rushed in without knocking and found her sitting on her sofa in front of a cosy fire.

“Mr. Malfoy. I'm sure you have a really good reason to barrel into my private chambers on Christmas Day at,” she glanced at the old grandfather clock in the corner, “almost midnight.”

“The Hunt took Potter!” Draco, having come in at a breakneck speed, nearly keeled over in his attempt to stop before crashing into his former professor.

“Pardon?”

“The Wild Hunt! Like, from the old nursery rhyme? We were outside fixing that southern wall and then there was a storm and, and, they were suddenly just there. Headmistress, they took him!” As windswept and out of breath as Draco was, he didn't much care about his lack of eloquence at the moment. How could McGonagall just sit there and calmly sip tea when Potter was missing?

Headmistress McGonagall carefully set her tea cup with the remainder of her Earl Grey onto the teapoy next to the sofa. “The Wild Hunt,” she repeated. “Mr. Malfoy, I assure you that that is merely a myth made up by gullible people who saw weird shapes within squall clouds and thought they were ghosts. Now, it's not uncommon among the easily-scared, yet I would have never thought that you–”

“Headmistress!” Draco all but yelled. “I saw them with my own two eyes! But that's beside the point. Have you not heard what I just said? They have Potter!”

The old woman's brows knitted together. “They have a potter among them?”

Draco stared at her.

If it had been any other person, he would have thought she was having him on. Draco Malfoy scared for Harry Potter. Ha ha, what a joke, let's pull his leg and play dumb, ha ha. It was stern, no-nonsense McGonagall though. Who was regularly sharing biscuits and stories with Potter during breaks, who had no sense of humour Draco knew of, who had been Potter's Head of House for six years, who was... currently looking at him like she had absolutely no idea whom Draco was talking about.

“Not a potter. Potter. Harry Potter? They grabbed him,” he said imploringly.

“I'm not sure I'm familiar with that name. A friend of yours? And you say The Wild Hunt stole him?”

Suddenly all his strength left Draco and he slowly let out a breath, sinking down onto a battered wing chair facing his interlocutor. “You're not familiar with Harry Potter.” This was starting to sound like a conversation between two parrots, always repeating the other's last words.

He put his head in his hands, then ran his fingers through his already tousled hair.

Impossible. It couldn't be. Or could it? Could the whispered stories of vanished or eradicated people really be true? That they never truly existed in the first place? Had Potter's life been erased when he'd been taken, like in the old tales? 'Even your life, a sacrifice'. Was that even imaginable? Yet, here Draco was at the receiving end of the oddest gaze by someone who should know Potter better than most people in this castle.

He sighed deeply. Steady now, Draco.

“Okay: He's got black hair, green eyes, terrible glasses, yae high. He went to school here. You've known him since he was eleven. Ring a bell?” It was only his frustration that made him talk to a higher-up in such a mannerless manner. That and maybe the relatively friendly relationship he had built with most of the Hogwarts staff over the last few months.

He was rewarded with a confused blink.

“Youngest Seeker at Hogwarts in a hundred years? Winner of the Triwizard Tournament? Defeater of the bloody Dark Lord?!” Draco's voice rose with every word until he was almost bellowing at the top of his lungs.

He got to his feet and drew his wand. “Accio Modern Magical History!”

The revised copy of a thick tome came sailing through the air from Headmistress McGonagall's bookcase in the farthest corner of the sitting room. Draco caught it with the ease of a former Seeker and took a nearly threatening step towards the hairnetted woman.

He just about shoved the book into her face. “Here, read for yourself. The chapter on The Battle of Hogwarts.”

She pursed her lips. “I don't need to read about it, Mr. Malfoy, I was there.”

“So was I. And I saw Potter beat him. Just as I saw Potter being spirited away by The Hunt tonight. If you don't believe me, look it up.”

Tentatively, the headmistress took the book and, after a silent moment of mutual staring, she opened it and skimmed the index for the right part.

“Here it is:
'...was Lord Voldemort (also known as the Dark Lord, You-Know-Who, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and Tom Riddle II) killed in a final duel in the Great Hall in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In the aftermath of The Battle...'
That's it. There's nothing here about a… Pitty?”

“Potter. Let me see that,” Draco held out a hand and, a second later, added a quick, “please.”

His fingers followed the words while his eyes darted rapidly from line to line. No Potter. Not a single word about him. In fact, the text made it seem as if no one in particular had been responsible for the Dark Lord's downfall. It was as if all of that had just happened.

Draco shut the book with a thud and found worried, yet curious eyes watching him.

“Mr. Malfoy, if I may–"

“No. I'm sorry, Prof– Headmistress, but this one seems a bit outdated. Accio The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts! Accio Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century!” How lucky that Headmistress McGonagall liked to read and had her own private collection at hand in her chambers.

Draco handed her one of the volumes (“Look for Har-ry Pot-ter,” he enunciated.) and opened the other one himself. He grew increasingly frustrated. Nothing. Potter's name was nowhere mentioned; neither in the newer section about this year's events nor in the older one about the happenings seventeen years ago.

“No Piotr in this one either,” said the headmistress.

“Potter,” Draco auto-corrected.

“Now, why was it again we were looking for this... person?” Headmistress McGonagall pushed her square glasses up her nose and Draco suppressed a frustrated groan.

“Because–”

A knock on the door interrupted him mid-sentence. Filius Flitwick popped his head in, dangling a bottle of wine and two long-stemmed glasses in one hand. “Good evening, Minerva! I thought you might be up for a nightcap? Oh! Mr. Malfoy, you're here, too? How lovely! Merry Christmas!”

Professor Flitwick seemed to have had some ‘nightcaps’ on his own already, since his overly cheerful face spotted ruddy cheeks and slightly unfocused eyes.

Draco jumped at the opportunity. “Professor! Good that you're here. Potter is in trouble!” He held his breath.

“Potter? What potter?” The small man blinked owlishly.

“The one and only? Harry Potter who finished off the Dark Lord in The Battle of Hogwarts?”

“Finished off the Dark Lord?” Parrot number three. “No, that can't be right. I was a witness when that happened and it was not this... Puttel... you mentioned.”

“Potter!” spit Draco more vehemently than intended.

What was it with them that they couldn't even remember Potter's stupid name for five minutes? Potter, Potter. Wasn't so hard now, was it?

He ground his teeth. “Regardless, Potter – someone – has been abducted by The Wild Hunt and we need to rescue him!”

There was a moment of silence during which Draco looked desperately between the two teachers, hoping that, even if they mysteriously couldn't quite recall Potter, they would at least want to save a person in need of help.

“The Wild Hunt?” Professor Flitwick repeated. “Oh, that's just a myth.”

“Argh!” Draco threw his hands in the air and turned on his heels to leave the cosy living chambers. This was no use.

***

Draco stormed through the deserted halls of Hogwarts. He was fuming and also deeply shaken. The old nursery rhyme about The Wild Hunt, that his mother used to sooth him with when he was frightened by thunder as a child, was playing on repeat in his head. Sure, one said that there was a grain of truth in every myth, but this? If he hadn't been there himself, he wouldn't have believed it either that they could just vanish a person's entire existence.

Potter, that idiot! Why didn't he ever listen? Why did he have to look? Draco huffed and shook his head. Because Potter was a bloody curious Gryffindor, that's why. And as such, he could very well save himself. Hadn't he done so numerous times in the past already? Why should Draco even bother?

Really, though, why should he? Draco frowned. It wasn't as if he would particularly miss Potter's annoying presence. Neither would anyone else, now that they didn't remember him anymore. Therefore, no one could blame Draco for not having done anything about it. Seriously, why bother? Let Potter sort this one out himself.

Draco had reached the Entrance Hall and made a face; Patchers weren't supposed to use the official entries, especially not after curfew. Oh, well. Just this once.

He crossed the closed double doors to the Great Hall, slowed and finally stopped in front of them. He suddenly felt cold trickling into the heat that had been caused by the whole Potter business. Draco always got chills when he passed here. Carefully, with a measured gesture, he reached out to touch the left of the two copper plaques fixed to both sides of the heavy portal. His fingers traced the name Vincent Crabbe. As always.

Draco swallowed. If Potter hadn't come for him, back in the Room of Requirement, he would have burnt. Like Vincent.

He owed Potter. He owed him for so many things.

It wasn't just that, though. Draco turned around to face the opposite wall, finding it empty. No sign of the hilariously hideous portrait of a goofy-faced Potter that the thankful wizarding community had insisted on hanging there at the re-opening celebrations in August.

Remembering Potter's pained look at the unveiling made Draco crack a smile. The Saviour had looked so embarrassed. As a consequence he had proceeded in hiding out at the Quidditch pitch... with Draco as his only company. Somehow, working together during the summer had brought them a smidge closer. Even though Draco would never admit it but maybe, just maybe, he would miss Potter after all. A tiny bit. Only for the banter, of course.

Draco gazed thoughtfully back at the plaques. These were the names of Hogwarts' Fallen Fifty that had died in The Battle.

How many more would have had to die if not for Potter? Draco felt determination bubbling up inside him.

The more important question now was, how to get him back.

Draco’s footsteps resumed, echoing on the walls. He briefly considered heading back towards the library to search Potter's name in the books there, but he realised that if Potter wasn't in McGonagall's books, he likely wasn't in any books at all.

Instead he stepped outside into a peaceful winter wonderland. His breath puffed white clouds in front of his face. It was bitterly cold although the wind had died down completely. Now, there was only a starry sky and innocently glittering snow, as if nothing had happened at all.

Draco picked up his line of thought as he started down the barely visible path that led off the grounds.

So, what now? Where could he go to find assistance if no one recalled the person they were supposed to help?

The Ministry? Draco wrinkled his nose. Going to the Aurors with a missing person's case would be the normal thing to do. Although in Draco's situation, there was a fair chance they'd rather lock him up than listen to his seemingly crazy story about a visitation from a nursery rhyme stealing away a man no one was able to remember. Also, it was Christmas Day and most likely everyone was at home with their families.

Potter had no family or at least no family that could help find him. Them being Muggles and all.

So that left... the Weasleys as Potter's more or less adopted family. Goddammit.

Draco bent his steps toward the gates of Hogwarts and after finally reaching their pillars topped with winged boars, slightly breathless and very unsure about what he was about to do, he Apparated with a loud crack.

***

The Burrow looked exactly like Draco had always imagined it: small, crooked and currently overflowing with Christmas decorations. All windows were alight with a warm glow and even through the closed door, Draco could hear the last notes of A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love as well as the sound of animated conversation and laughter. It was such a happy and welcoming sound.

Draco swallowed hard. He'd been standing outside for almost two full minutes now, not daring to knock. But he had to. For Potter.

“Here goes nothing,” Draco muttered and rapped on the door.

For a moment it seemed as though nobody had heard him, but then quick footsteps were coming closer.

“Merry Christmas!” sounded a cheerful voice as the door was being opened with enthusiasm.

It was Potter's Weasel, whose face fell. Of course, he had been expecting someone else. Anyone else. “Malfoy?!”

“Hullo, Weasley,” Draco said evenly, refraining from using the spiteful nickname, “may I have a word with you?” If anyone remembered Potter, it would be his best friend, surely.

The redhead gaped at him as if Draco had just sprouted wings, and remained like that unblinkingly until his sister came up from behind, throwing an arm around the Weasel's shoulders. “Who is– What do you want?”

“He... he wants a word...” her brother supplied faintly, still looking utterly shocked.

His sister however quickly found her wits again and a storm cloud gathered in her face. “How dare you? How dare you come to our home! On Christmas! Vespertilio!”^[1]

Draco instinctively ducked away as the Bat-Bogey Hex barely missed him by a hair. His hand flew to his wand and he was halfway done producing a counter-hex when he remembered the reason for his being here. So instead he hastily took cover behind a bearded scarecrow, which was dressed in red velvet the way Muggles liked to clothe during Yuletide, standing askew in the middle of the yard. It wouldn't do to duel the family he was hoping to get help from.

“I just want to talk!” he yelled from the back of his makeshift barricade while spells kept flying his way. Draco didn't even know why exactly this girl was so angry at him. Of course, there were lots of different reasons coming to mind, but nothing recent. He hadn't seen her in months and couldn't even recall the last time they exchanged words.

“I give you 'talk', you bastard!” Every sentence was accentuated by a hex. “Let's talk about scarred Bill! Or poisoned Ron! Or tortured Hermione! Or – or F-Fred... you, you arseh–”

“GINEVRA WEASLEY! You better not finish that word!” sounded the voice of a sturdy woman through the night. She had appeared in the door frame, presumably to see what the ruckus was all about.

In the sudden silence that followed, Draco could hear harsh, female sobs. It seemed like Potter had been right with his assessment of the household's emotional state: Everyone tried their best to keep it in and just be happy during the holidays. Draco's unforeseen arrival had tipped the scales though and now he was on the receiving end of outpouring feelings that weren't completely directed at him.

Draco sighed and took a deep breath. He had been in similar situations before. It was one of the reasons he had decided to avoid social gatherings lately.

He smoothed down his robes and emerged from his hiding spot. “Good evening, Mrs. Weasley. I'm sorry to intrude at such a late hour but I need to discuss something with,” he gestured towards the still-staring Weasel now plastered with a quivering mess of girl, “your son.” Pause. “And Granger. If she's here,” he added in an afterthought.

More silence.

“It's rather cold out tonight, isn't it? Would you like to come in?” Mrs. Weasley's tone had reverted back to its usual warmth. She sounded like the mother Draco had caught sight of at Platform 9¾ occasionally and he was now quite surprised to be the recipient of that friendly voice.

He hesitated only a second then straightened his back. “Yes, that would be very kind of you,” he said, proceeding in stepping in between the three Weasleys and into the fox den.

The first thing Draco noticed when he entered the kitchen was the delicious smell of festive roast. It hit him with an unexpected wave of nostalgia, memories of childhood Christmases bubbling up to the surface of his mind. He quickly blinked them away. Now was not the time to reminisce. Even though his stomach growled a bit and reminded him that he hadn't had a proper meal all day, that could wait, too.

“Through here,” said Mother Weasley and gestured for Draco and her children to follow her into the living room that was crammed with a giant live fir tree (decorated with way too many blinking fairy lights for Draco's taste) and buckets of redheads dispersed on various mismatched furniture.

“Everyone, we have a guest.”

“Oh.” Mr. Weasley's eyebrows shot up when he assessed 'the guest' hovering in the doorway. They climbed even higher when the Weasel and his puffy-eyed sister pushed past Draco. “Er...”

Draco scanned the room. Right in front of him, two older gingers and that former Beauxbatons champion girl on a worn couch looked at him curiously. Meanwhile, his welcoming committee had split up, with Mrs. Weasley joining her husband on a love seat directly under the tree to the left while the other two sat down by the fire to the right, mixing in with a circle of people apparently in the middle of a game of Exploding Snap. Draco had never bothered to learn their names, but there was the surviving twin and that stuck-up ex-Head Boy. As well as one bushy-haired Hermione Granger. Oh goody.

Ten pairs of eyes were on Draco and suddenly he felt very hot. He cleared his throat. “Um, so...” Now that he had had time to think things through, he wasn't all that frantic anymore. “I'm sorry for coming unannounced, but I have a rather urgent matter that I need to speak about with,” he glanced towards the Weasel and Granger and then took in the whole room, making a decision, “all of you, actually: Not an hour ago, The Wild Hunt seized Potter from the Hogwarts grounds.” He waited anticipatorily. No reaction, okay. Plan B. “What I mean is, someone was abducted and I need your help to get him back.”

“Someone was abducted? Who?” came cries from all corners of the room.

“Potter,” Draco tried.

“A potter? In Hogwarts? What would they need a potter for?” disdained Stuck-Up.

Draco couldn't help but roll his eyes. Why did Potter have to have a descriptive surname? No one would mistake Malfoy for a job title. “It's Potter. That's his name.”

Stuck-Up waved the answer away. “Whatever.”

“The question remains, why would anyone be abducted from Hogwarts?” cut in the twin, narrowing his eyes. “Is this a joke, Malfoy? Because I swear, if it is–”

“It's not a joke! He's really in trouble!”

“Why not go to the Aurors then? What do you want from us?” Apparently the Weasley girl had recovered, since she now glared at Draco.

“It's complicated. The Aurors wouldn't believe me, because, you see, The Wild Hunt has taken him. Him and all memories of him. You don't remember but he's your friend. You're close like family.” Draco ran a hand through his hair. This wasn't going well. “Do you think otherwise I would have come here of all places? Don't you consider that I know you all hate me? I just– he... he needs saving! That's what you do, right? So, save him!”

Suddenly two big owls and a tiny one fluttered from the top of the Christmas tree with indignant hoots and shot out the living room door past Draco. The tiny owl messing up several red hairdos in the process. All the raised voices in the room must have woken them.

“Argh, Pig!”

Pig? Draco had never seen anything that looked less like a pig. He shelved that thought. Not important.

Picking up the discussion, the twin said doubtfully: “If this Patty,” (“Potter.”) “is our friend like you said then why was he with you on Christmas and why would you care what happened to our friend? This is all bullshit,” (“George, language!”) “and I don't believe a word coming out of your mouth, Malfoy.” He crossed his arms in front of his body and glared defiantly.

Draco was close to bursting into hysterical laughter. What had he expected? He pushed his rising panic down.

“He was here. Today. He just,” Draco faltered for a moment, “had something to finish at the castle. Also, he wasn't with me. We just ran into each other. But that's not what matters. What matters is that he needs rescuing.” He felt faint all of sudden. “Please,” he added almost inaudibly.

“That's the first time I've ever heard you say 'please',” Granger piped up thoughtfully. “Okay, let's hear him out, shall we? It won't hurt, right?”

“Yeah, well, he's already ruined the mood,” grumbled the Weasel. “Aren't you glad now that you decided not to go with your parents to visit their Australian friends? Who wants Christmas on the beach when they can have Malfoy on a nonsense-spouting spree?”

“Hermione is right.” The wild-looking Weasley straight ahead, whose jumper was decorated with a fire-spewing dragon, ignored the Weasel's comment and looked expectantly at Draco. “Start from the beginning. Who was abducted? Where? When? Why? And, maybe most importantly, by whom?”

Draco dipped his head at him thankfully. “All right, again from the top: His name is Harry Potter. He’s eighteen years old. He was snatched from the Hogwarts grounds, near the southern walls tonight close to midnight. As to why I can only guess: Because he looked illicitly at The Wild Hunt. It is they who have taken him.”

“The Wild Hunt... isn't that a children's tale?” mused Wild-One. “Mum, Dad, you told us the story when we were younger, didn't you? How did that go?”

Father Weasley knit his eyebrows together. “'Listen to me or The Wild Hunt will be your undoing?' Something like that. I'm sorry, it's been too long. We sang those rhymes to you when you were but babes.”

“'Child, oh child, just heed my story!
If you won't now, you will be sorry.
When comes the winter with snow and ice,
close your windows and close your eyes!
Or The Hunt, The Hunt will be your demise’,” Draco recited which earnt him several odd looks from the assembled party. And he hadn't even sung it to a tune. He blushed ever so slightly. “Ahem, so, what I think happened is that Potter didn't close his eyes and looked at The Hunt instead, which is why he got spirited away.”

“Zat actually sounds reasonable. We know zat tale in France, too. La Chasse Aérienne, c'est ça, non?^[2] If you spy at ze riders you will be punished.” Beauxbatons nodded in agreement with her words. “It's possible. But! Not coming from zis boy!” Suddenly her eyes were blazing. “Don't you all forget: 'e is ze reason my Bill got 'urt like zis! I won't trust anything 'e says!”

There was approving murmuring floating through the room.

“Hush, chérie.^[3] That is old news.” Her husband (Draco was vaguely remembering having heard of the union) leant closer towards her and placed a gentle kiss on her temple, a lone earring catching the glow of the fireplace for a second, lighting up his scarred face. Draco had to look away. “Besides, didn't you say I look even more handsome like this?” There was snickering and the air in the room relaxed with people letting go of the sudden tenseness.

Everyone but Draco.

Beauxbatons was right. And the Weasley girl was right. Draco had done so many terrible things to this family. What reason should they have to listen to any story he told them?

He felt guilty and the guilt made him queasy. How many times had he picked up a quill to write out an apology note? Yet, he'd never done it. He couldn't find the words. Right now was not the best moment though. He let it go and cleared his throat. “So, anyway, that's the situation. Now, if any of you have a good idea as to where to look to get him back?”

“Get whom back?” Mother Weasley looked confused.

“Potter,” said Draco more patiently than he felt.

“Right... Malfoy, why are you here again?” The Weasel's face was scrunched up in thought. It looked right painful. “What were we talking about?”

Draco opened his mouth. This would be a long night. He had had an inkling before, but now it seemed certain that people forgot about Potter almost the second they heard about him. Furthermore, they had trouble keeping the thread of a conversation about The Wild Hunt.

“Ah, yes! We were talking about old fairy tales, weren't we? Well, my favourite story has always been Babbitty Rabbitty and–"

“No,” Draco cut in, “we were talking about getting your best friend Potter back from The Wild Hunt.”

The Weasel blinked. “My best friend Poover?”

“Potter,” sighed Draco.

“We had forgotten about him again, hadn't we?” Granger tapped her finger to her chin. “He is eradicated from our memory over and over, isn't he? That... Potty?” Close. Also, hilarious.

“Potter.”

“So why is it you don't forget him?” Wild-One was sharper than he looked.

Draco started. He hadn't thought about that yet.

“See? I told you – he's making it up to mock us,” the twin spat venomously.

“I'm not. I think... yes, I think maybe I'm the only one who remembers Potter because I was with him when it happened. That is the only logical explanation.”

“When what happened?” Stuck-Up wrinkled his nose at Draco. “Really, Malfoy, start making sense, will you?”

Suppressing a groan, Draco faced the sitting circle. “When Potter was stolen.”

“Who?” Earring interjected, briefly pausing his nuzzling of Beauxbatons' pretty neck.

“Potter,” Draco felt near tears.

This wasn't working. He might have been able to make them believe his story about The Hunt but they couldn't even remember Potter long enough to hold a conversation, how could they ever help him? He had to try though.

“Again–"

Bong bong. Somewhere in the house sounded a clock, indicating that it was 1 a.m. in the morning. There was a wave of stretching and yawning going around the room.

“I could do with a late night snack,” announced the Weasel, putting an arm around Granger. Right, Potter had mentioned that they were going out now. Weird.

“You mean early morning snack, Ron. Though I feel a bit peckish myself,” agreed Mr. Weasley with a smirk.

“Then how about another helping of pudding? Who wants some?” Mrs. Weasley was already on her way towards the kitchen and didn't even count the unanimously up-shooting hands. She paused in the doorway. “Would you like some as well?” She smiled at Draco.

“Before that – about Potter...” He faltered. Mother Weasley kept smiling at Draco in the way of the oblivious. Draco gave up. “No, thank you. I must be going, I think.”

“All right, it is awfully late already, isn't it?” She passed by him and left Draco standing, forlornly looking at a room full of redheaded people who had resumed their conversation from before his arrival and were now once again completely unaware of the fact that there should be a mop of black hair sitting among them.

“Goodbye,” he choked awkwardly into the group and left, glimpsing some of the heads turning his way and some of the faces furrowing their brows. One especially.

Draco felt tears burning in his throat. He needed to get out, get home to his gatehouse and clear his head.

But he should be so lucky as to escape quietly.

“Here, take this for the way. You must feel lonely with your parents in France.” The Weasley matriarch held out something that looked like a huge package of assorted foods. “Merry Christmas.”

Merry Christmas. Draco gulped. He hadn't been able to tell Potter 'Merry Christmas' back then. What if he never got a chance again? He dug his nails into his palm and reached for the offered bundle with the other hand.

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley. Merry…” He just couldn’t. “Happy holidays.”

When Draco turned away to leave The Burrow he felt the first hot drops spilling down his cheeks while Mother Weasley started to put servings of pudding onto various plates, humming Carol of the Bells in the foxes' kitchen.

***

Draco carefully put the care packet on his desk before collapsing into a chair and slamming his arms onto the tabletop. He buried his face in the crooks, exhaustion washing over him.

The whole day he had been fixing things at Hogwarts, trying to escape his self-imposed loneliness that he had procured by turning down his parents' invitation to join them in France as well as his friends' proposal for a Christmas get-together. He just felt unable to be festive when the memories of last year's winter holidays in a house full of cold-blooded sadists were still too fresh.

A mix of sweet and savoury smells slowly made its way to the forefront of Draco's consciousness. He lifted his gaze and contemplated rifling through the parcel of food.

But then he shook his head. No, Potter didn't get to have any snacks either. And if their roles were reversed, Draco just knew that Potter would be already shouting it from the rooftops that Malfoy had vanished. Because that's who the Scarhead was, someone who would put others' needs before his own. Which was exactly the reason Draco had to bring the idiot back: so Draco could make fun of Potter's stupid selflessness.

Therefore, a plan had to be made!

Draco pushed his chair back and started pacing the floor. Whatever he would do, he would have to do it alone since the recent attempts had shown that no one besides Draco was able to keep memories of Potter long enough to help. So, no backup.

All traces of Potter seemed to have been eradicated which meant looking for guidance in books was out of the question, at least where The Boy Who Lived was concerned.

Draco pulled at his bottom lip. Although the chances were slim, the nursery rhyme about The Wild Hunt did exist. So that meant there had to be more – records about the lore, maybe even precedent. He had to make a trip back to Hogwarts tomorrow, see if there were anything to be found in the library.

For now though... Draco sat down again and searched in the top drawer of his desk until his hand touched a little notebook. It was a pretty, gold-adorned piece. He'd never had any use for it. But now it was exactly what he needed.

He dipped his quill into the ink bottle, hovered over the first page for a moment and then started writing:
- black bird's nest, green eyes, ugly glasses, lightning bolt
- insufferable, annoying, stubborn, stupidly brave, nauseatingly loyal, moderately clever
- no fashion sense
- passable Quidditch player
- pants at Potions
- …

The list went on and on. Everything and anything Draco could recall about Potter and his life landed on the expensive, handmade paper of the journal. If there were no books about the Chosen One anymore, someone just had to write one (maybe, once he got Potter back, Draco could sell it to the Daily Prophet). So he diligently got to work.

***

Draco woke with a start.

His back hurt and he was stiff all over. When he rubbed the sleep off his face with ink stained fingers he could feel the indents left by miscellaneous writing utensils which lay spread across the blank pages of a notebook. Bloody hell, he must have fallen asleep at the desk last night.

Draco yawned and his eyes fell onto the still untouched stack of goodies in front of him. Breakfast time!

But maybe some strong black tea first.

His current residence wasn't very big, so Draco only needed a few steps into the adjacent kitchenette. He whooshed his wand to get the tea making started and frowned a bit. Who would have thought there would come the day that the heir of the Malfoy name had a home-cooked Weasley meal for breakfast.

He cocked his head. Why did he go to The Burrow again? Yesterday, when he had decided to avoid any festivities, he'd somehow ended up spending an hour with the Weasel and his family. But whyever would Draco do that? His brain started to hurt and he pushed the thought aside. It wasn't important now, was it? As long as there was food. And Merlin, was he hungry!

Balancing the hot beverage and an array of edibles on a tray, Draco went back to the study-slash-living-room and sat down at the desk. Though he'd been living here for months now, the room looked still rather uninhabited, with very little furniture in it.

While he enjoyed cold roast and mashed potatoes (Mother Weasley could cook!), he cleared up the tabletop with one hand. Picking up the small notebook, Draco knit his brows. Had he been writing something last night? He thumped through the pages but there was nothing, just milky white blankness.

Something wasn't right. Draco knew it, just... just he couldn't quite catch it. Something about the journal...

Engrossed in thought, he reached for the teapot to top his cup up and stopped mid-movement, intensely looking at the china. The teapot. The pot. ...Potter!

Draco jumped up as though stung by a bee. Potter! He had nearly forgotten about Potter! How could Draco have been so careless as to... his eyes snapped to the book and he hoicked it up. Empty pages. Blank! All of them!

He slumped down. Staring disbelieving at the non-writing where he now remembered with crystal clarity to have penned essays and essays of Potter anecdotes the night before.

This wasn't real.

He couldn't even keep a record of Potter? Draco had barely managed to remember the Scarhead this morning. How could he make sure not to forget him tomorrow or the day after?

Draco tore at his hair and was about to spiral into a full-blown meltdown when there was a sharp rapping on the front door.

He blinked. No one ever came here. Possibly he'd only imagined it in his state of panic.

Knock knock.

Not his imagination then. Great.

Draco exhaled slowly while smoothing his loose strands with one hand. Whoever it was they didn't need to know about his inner crisis. He put on his poker face and went to open the door.

Within seconds, his indifferent mask crashed splintering to the floor, leaving him gaping at no other than Hermione Granger and a grumpy looking Weasel hidden half behind her.

“I, I, I, you!” Draco spluttered.

“Good morning to you, too, Malfoy,” was the girl's reply and she made to push past him, her boyfriend in tow, as if Draco had invited them in instead of producing incoherent stammering.

Having two thirds of the Golden Trio standing in his home was surreal. It must have felt like that for the Weasleys seeing Draco in their living room the day before.

“Er,” Draco cleared his throat, “so, what brings you here?”

Although the Weasel took a defiant stance, it was Granger that answered: “We came to help.”

“To help?” echoed Draco confused. “To help with what?”

“With whatever it is that made you come to The Burrow last night,” said Granger and started unlooping her red and gold Gryffindor scarf from around her neck. “None of us can remember clearly, but it must have been something big if you came to us. And it has something to do with some sort of Memory Charm.”

“How do you know that?” A sceptical part of Draco still refused to hope that– no.

Granger watched him thoughtfully for a moment. “When Voldemort,” (Draco flinched.) “took over, I put a spell on my parents, remodelling their memories so that they would forget me and emigrate to Australia. I wanted to keep them safe from persecution. Still, even though I reverted the effect, they sometimes lapse back into their fake identities, so I've been reading up on memory magic. That is why I recognised the signs.”

Draco stared at her wide-eyed, too stunned to say anything.

“Look, do you want our help or not?” The ginger had stopped his impatient shifting and crossed his arms over his chest. “It's not like we have nothing better to do.”

The words were almost hostile and yet a wave of relief flooded Draco. They would help. He wasn't alone in this anymore.

“Much obliged, Weasel. I shall take you up on that offer.”

The redhead snorted. “Why don't you start by filling us in, Ferret?"

Chapter Text

Noise. That was the first thing the young man registered, even before opening his eyes. He listened for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. What had happened to him? Apparently he was lying on a cold, hard surface and was surrounded by people whose loud talking and singing was somewhat topsy-turvy.

Then there was the feeling like something or someone was constantly picking gently at his head.

He fluttered his eyelashes, sitting up. The soundscape seemed to intensify and his head made a valiant effort at exploding from sudden pain. He groaned and rubbed his hands over his eyes to shut out the colourful scenery spread out around him: There were people in oddest apparel sitting, standing, dancing, chatting and laughing in every direction, yet they seemed to take no notice of him. His fingers met resistance and he bent his brows when he fumbled for the strange thing on his face. Ah, yes, glasses, he wore glasses. Which made sense since the moment he took them off, the whole eccentric mass of characters turned blurry in the misty morning light.

He was distracted by a renewed tapping, this time on his hand. The spectacle-wearer looked down to find a snowy owl hooting softly while sitting next to him on the equally snowy ground. Amber eyes blinked at him and he had the inexplicable feeling that he had seen this bird before.

“I know you.” It wasn't a question. The owl tipped its head to the other side and kept looking at him, its gaze intense and somewhat expectant. He tentatively lifted a hand to pet the bird. “I know you.” Just from where, he couldn't say.

“What's your name now, hm?” The owl flapped its wings. “How about I give you one, would you like that?” He received a tender nip on his index finger. “All right. So, are you a girl or a boy? Er, I think girl.” An affirmative chirp. “Okay, then... how about... Snowdrop?” Snowdrop seemed delighted and rubbed her head affectionately on the boy's biceps.

“Well, good. Now that we figured out your name, how about you help me find mine? I seem to have misplaced it, along with pretty much any information about myself.” He burrowed one hand in his own unruly black hair and the other in Snowdrop's feathers. “Must've hit my head quite badly.”

The snowy owl gave him a critical stare and made for his shoulder, where she perched in a dignified manner and started picking at her new friend's jumper which was peeking out from beneath his winter robes. He squinted at his front. There, in golden embroidery on scarlet background was one word: Harry.

“Harry, huh?” said the boy who was most possibly called Harry. “I can live with that.”

“Well, you certainly won't have to very long,” pronounced a crisp voice from behind him.

Harry span around, dislodging Snowdrop in the movement.

A most outlandish looking woman gazed down at him, her clothes rustling lightly in the icy breeze. Her physique was somewhat small (Harry guessed he would be taller than her when standing), yet her sheer presence was so humongous that it drowned out everything else around her. Even the sounds seemed to dim while Harry's eyes travelled upwards: from half-boots that looked overgrown by moss, over a pure-white Tracht dress^[1] and an equally white apron with a somewhat ragged hem under an alabaster fur coat with gilt rimming, up to her cow horns and leafy crown on her silvery hair, falling down to her waist which was belted with an iron chain. Her face was old and wrinkly with a prominent bird-like nose, yet her eyes seemed almost glowing and drew Harry in, even more so than her iron crescent moon maang tikka.^[2] She could have been mistaken for a snowwoman in all her whiteness if not for the pitch-black wings sprouting from her back.

Harry shivered and it wasn't because of the cold seeping into his body from the snow-covered ground. There was something about this... being... something that touched his innermost core in a way he couldn't describe. Only that he knew without asking that she was oh so powerful and old, no ancient, and that he better not anger her. Yet there was also a confusing softness to her that made him feel something akin to hope. She felt like winter and spring – and she was still looking at him.

“Er, hello,” Harry hazarded, “were you talking to me?”

Her colourless, gleaming eyes bored into him. “Indeed I was, New Face.”

“Harry,” said Harry.

“I don't think so,” was the unperturbed reply. “We will find you a better name in no time. But you may call me Holle today.”

Harry was a bit confused. Her words made no sense to him. “Today?” he asked.

The crone chuckled. “Yes, today I'm Holle. Holle who brought you a horse.”

It was only then that Harry noticed the old woman was accompanied by a pale palomino. Holle's aura (or whatever one could call it) really had suppressed all her surroundings; even a horse 16 hands high.

Harry cleared his throat. “I'm not sure I understand. See, I seem to have some problems with remembering correctly. Maybe you could help me by telling me where we are, how we got here and how we know each other? Oh, and also, why you want to give me a horse.”

Holle huffed in annoyance. “Sure, I could do that, but I don't have all day to babysit, lad. We decided you'll be a rider, so you need a horse. Figure the rest out yourself!” With that she thrust the reins into Harry's unprepared hands, her fingers cold as ice, and turned to leave. She had barely taken a step though, when she suddenly span around as with an afterthought and for the bat of an eye Harry could've sworn her face was young and beautiful. “Harry, you say... Here, I think this belongs to you, Master Harry,” she mocked. Next she plucked the floral wreath from her head and shoved in onto Harry's and before the newly crowned boy could utter more than a surprised stutter, she had spread her wings and flown away.

Harry stared after her, barely noticing that the moment she had left, the noises around him had picked up again and colours had grown brighter once more.

Snowdrop landed back on his shoulder, nibbling lovingly at his left ear, while his unnamed new companion huffed warm air into his right one.

Harry shook his head. What was going on? He went from no memory to two pets and a flower chaplet. What a day this was.

The horse showed interest in Harry's new laurels and he had to bend his neck a bit to get out of reach, but the palomino was quicker and snatched a leaf from the crown. “Hey, stop it! Geez, you're fast as lightning. Oh, that's what we're going to call you, boy – Lightning!” Lightning didn't acknowledge his new name at all and continued to try and fish leaves from Harry's head with his horse tongue.

“Okay, that's enough.” Harry took the flower spray off with the intention of hiding it behind his back. He stopped halfway through, however, and just looked at the thing. It was a wreath with privet as its base, decorated with dozens of white lilies and one single petunia in the middle, as well as a grain of wheat and a stinging nettle on one side. But the thing that really caught Harry's attention was the fact that the flower circlet was glowing in an inner, soft light.

Glowing just like – he turned to face Snowdrop on his shoulder (while putting out his hand so that Lightning couldn't steal more plants) and certainly, the owl was also illuminated by this strange shine. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realised that he had noticed it before, he had just been too preoccupied with other things. He looked at Lightning, yet, despite his luminous name, the horse was simply a horse trying to eat Harry's present.

He sighed and placed the crown back on his head. All this was just too weird. He needed to get out of wherever this was. And the best way to do that, was through. So Harry, his owl on his shoulder, started to stir his horse (with a stern look: “NO, Lightning!”) among the surrounding people.

There were mixed groups of odd folk, each huddled around a little camp fire, strewn in a wide ring around Harry's waking place. The gathered persons came in different shapes and sizes, but they all had in common that they were loud and boisterous, easily changing circles while Harry, Snowdrop and Lightning tried weaving their way through them, their horses and carts.

Music and laughter was filling the chilly morning air and Harry found his eyes darting quickly this way and that, trying to take everything in at once. He was fascinated as well as freaked out.

To his left a group of giggling nuns surrounded a priest who was apparently in the middle of telling a saucy joke, while to his right a band of little people tried to topple a giant of a man to the raucous guffaws of a surrounding audience of barely clad spectators. As he was watching, Harry was jostled against by a Middle Agey knight in full body armour hiccuping an excuse when he swayed, wine cup in hand, on towards another bonfire. That one was encircled by men and women in masks listening to a story a little girl in pig-tails was telling from the back of a big pig. On the other side, a crowd had formed around a colourful array of musicians dressed in different types of soldier uniforms (new and dated), playing cheerful tunes. Harry found himself humming along.

All that whilst animals, ranging from dogs and cats over goats, lizards, chickens, snakes, polecats, cows, toads, chamoises to bears (nobody seemed to mind but Harry carefully avoided those), ran criss-cross through the assembly with a bunch of birds following their example overhead.

The chaos and racket was just too much for Harry's still somewhat hurting head. He wanted to join but at the same time wanted to be somewhere more quiet to clear his thoughts and find out where he was – and maybe more importantly, who.

He fumbled his way to the fringe of the party and finally let out a breath when he squeezed out in between dancing figures, finding himself at last alone-ish at the bank of an almost circular pond, glowing in the same light as his laurels and Snowdrop. Here, close to the midnight blue water, the noises seemed to have moved away a bit. Only soft chimes of bells (which oddly enough seemed to be coming from inside the pond) were heard now and made room for fresh winter air to fill his lungs and thoughts his head. Harry eyed his surroundings. He saw snowy mountains encircling the water in a wide round on all sides. There were no visible paths that could have led out of the dale.

How did all these people with their flock and wains manage to get in here? And how on earth would he get out?

A thought struck him. Maybe not on earth... His gaze wandered upwards and soon found itself entangled in dark storm clouds, hanging low overhead and, while alight with an occasional bolt, gently dropping snowflakes onto Harry's raised face. No, flying in a storm would be crazy. There had to be another way.

He frowned. Why did he think of flying of all things? How would he even...? He shook his head. Weird thought.

Harry half-heartedly turned back to the still partying crowd. He had to ask someone in there for an egress. But whom?

The question became superfluous.

“Hey, you!” A cheerful voice to his right made Harry jump. “Yes, you! Good to see you again!”

And before Harry could as much as blink, a strong arm had wound its way around his shoulders, flushing Snowdrop away, and he suddenly found himself face to freckled face with a red-haired stranger whose wardrobe was made of mismatching pieces in clashing colours.

“Er, do I know you?” Harry choked as the young man enthusiastically strangle-dragged him along, back into the centre of the crowd.

“Sort of,” was the chipper reply.

“Don't people here know how to answer questions in a non-confusing way?” Harry had grappled himself mostly free from the other's tight grip and bobbed alongside him, still holding Lightning's reins.

The ginger threw his head back and laughed heartily. “I knew I liked you. Hey, gang, look whom I found! It's our good friend–" Here he looked at Harry expectantly.

“Harry,” grumbled Harry, rubbing his now armless neck.

“– Harry!” announced his companion. Then he frowned. “That's a boring name. We will have to find you another one. How about–"

“Now, hold on! I don't even know your name yet!” After the short reprieve at the pond's shore, Harry felt once again overwhelmed by the turn of unexpected events following in quick succession.

“That's right, Half! Let the boy breathe, you child.” Spoken with a wink had a pale, barefooted girl in a lavender toga sitting at one of the many camp fires. Her hair was partially braided in a cute up-do with daffodils sticking in all the right places and she was leaning her back onto a black horse with fiery eyes which was bizarrely wearing a hairband with fluffy rabbit ears.

The girl giggled following Harry's gaze. She petted the horse. “This is Binky,” her fingertips brushed over her face absent-mindedly, eyes hardening, “and I'm Wolfe.”

Harry thought that Wolfe could have been pretty if it hadn't been for the half-circle of angry red teeth marks covering her right cheek from brow to jaw and the thick, ropey scars covering her bare arm, collarbone to elbow.

“Here! You can sit here, here with me!” piped up a tiny boy at the fire, gesturing wildly to get Harry's attention and patting the ground between his jeans-clad legs and two dozing horses, one brown, one chestnut.

When Harry didn't immediately make a move to come over, the excited youth jumped up and grabbed his hand. “Do you think your name is boring? Are you hungry? Do you like bonfires?” he rattled off while pulling. “The brown one is mine. Her name is Grapes, because she likes grapes. And that is Half's horse, Gee.”

Since the chatterbox wasn't all that strong, Harry had a few moments to survey him: He had fair skin, mouse-brown hair and equally brown eyes shining from behind a hand-painted mask that covered the upper half of his face and showed a breathtaking landscape.

Harry let himself be tugged down eventually and in the fire's light, he could finally read the writing printed across the masked boy's grey T-shirt: When I have a camera in my hand, I know no fear.

“That's why we call him BraveHeart,” informed the redhead, nodding at BraveHeart's chest and plopping down next to Harry. “I'm Half, by the way.”

“So I heard.” Harry's dry reply sent Wolfe and BraveHeart into a fit of giggles.

Half just grinned and rubbed his big nose. “Marshmallows?” He produced a bag of colourful sweets from one of his oversized pockets. “Speaking of which: How do biscuits, chocolate and marshmallows communicate? In s'mores-code!”

All four doubled over in laughter and Harry felt the anxiety of being in this unknown situation partially falling off of him. He started to like those crazies. Wolfe seemed a bit silly, BraveHeart was way too easily excited and Half had a bit of a domineering personality, but they were already making him feel safe and that really counted for something now, didn't it?

“Hilarious!” squeaked BraveHeart breathlessly and then turned towards the horses. “Ember! Half brought marshmallows! Even the green ones that you like so much!”

There was a faint grunt and Harry wondered how many more new people he would have to meet today until he could finally get some rest. But still, his curiosity got the best of him and he peeped over his marshmallow-on-stick that Wolfe had just handed him, at the mysterious 'Amber girl' that must have been sleeping behind the horses.

What emerged though wasn't a girl at all. Rather it was a mountain of a boy: broad shoulders, thick neck, gorilla-like arms and a flat nose in an expressionless face under a pudding-bowl haircut. He was dressed in nothing but a singed piece of old robes, arranged carelessly around his privates. The most interesting thing about this newest addition to Harry's ever-growing assortment of weirdos though was the sooty skin that was interveined with dimly glowing red veins, making him look like a moving bulk of half-hardened lava. Ember, glowing ashes, of course.

Ember's sunken-in eyes met Harry's over the camp fire and the latter quickly looked away. There was something about this cinder man that was deeply disturbing.

Lost in thought, he jumped as something warm and wet brushed his ear. “Lightning! Stop eating my wreath!” Harry pulled away to the loud amusement of his new acquaintances. He growled. “Everyone, this is Lightning the leaf thief. And,” a quick look around, “this is Snowdrop, my owl.”

Wolfe cooed delighted. “What a beauty she is.” Snowdrop seemed to agree with this assessment as she gracefully landed on the girl's shoulder and accepted an un-barbecued piece of marshmallow from her.

“Oh. My. Goddess! Don't tell me, is that? It can't be! Is that Perchta's crown?!” screeched BraveHeart suddenly and pointed bouncing at Harry's flower chaplet.

Immediately the whole group was staring at Harry in utter silence. It was somewhat eerie.

“Erm, no, the person who gave this to me was called Holle,” explained the target of the stares.

“But that is Perchta! So, it really is her crown! Unbelievable. You are so lucky!” BraveHeart's eyes had become round like the moon and he gawked so unabashedly that Harry felt a blush creeping up his neck. Especially since the others joined in on the rapt ogling. Like he was some sort of carnival attraction; when they themselves were the weirder people here.

Half cleared his throat, trying to look important: “Perchta is Holle, is Selden is Mallt-y-Nos, is Diana is Artemis, is Persephone is Hekate, is many others. She has lots of names. We all call her the name she had when we first met her, so for us, she is Perchta and for you, she is Holle,” he clarified.

“But who exactly is–" Harry was cut off.

“Aren't we done with introductions yet? Besides, time to eat!” chuckled Wolfe who had finished handing out sticks with sticky sweets in different colours.

“Right, almost forgot,” nodded Half, spinning his marshmallow over the fire. Harry got the distinct impression that the jokester was the group's leader. “We still have to pick a name for you, newbie.”

“I have a name. My name is Harry. Here, it's even written on my jumper.” And with that Harry opened his robes to show the embroidery on his chest. BraveHeart whistled appreciatively and Wolfe made an ooh-sound.

Harry looked at Half with a smirk, ready to say 'I told you so', but the words died on his lips when he saw the odd expression that had frozen the redhead's face in place. It was a complicated feeling somewhere between painful sweetness and agony of the worst kind.

“Put that away.” Ember's voice was low and surprisingly soft. He pushed Harry's robes shut with one big hand.

Between his vibrant and vivid companions, the soot boy was like a cloud of darkness that absorbed the surrounding light. Harry shifted as far away as possible. Ember made him uneasy.

“So,” Harry hemmed, trying to gloss over the awkward moment, “how exactly do we know each other? Because I think I hit my head. Sorry, but I can't really remember you. Or me for that matter.”

“Oh, that's easy: You're glowing,” stated Wolfe after checking with a quick glance that a pale-faced Half wasn't going to answer. BraveHeart nodded eagerly.

Harry lifted his hands before his eyes and turned them over. “I'm not though.”

“You are,” reinforced the giggly girl. “You just can't see it. Only we can see that you glow. And only you can see that we glow. Isn't that so? We are glowing to you as well, aren't we?”

She was right of course. Harry had noticed it instantly, the moment he had met Half. All of them – Wolfe, BraveHeart, Half, even Ember – were not just around his age, but also glowing with that inner light. Not the horses though. Harry mused for a second if horses couldn't glow in this world.

“What does it mean? The glow, does it mean anything?” Harry asked.

“It means,” said Half who seemed to have come to terms with whatever had caused his earlier mood-swing, “that we have met before we died, before we came to The Hunt. We are each other's Somewhen Things.”

Harry blinked rapidly. Had he heard that correctly?

“What do you mean 'before we died'? I'm not dead!” Harry had got to his feet without even noticing it. BraveHeart's eyes flew from one to the other.

“Oh my, has no one told you yet?” Wolfe squealed scandalised. Then she continued, piping down a bit: “It's not as bad as it sounds. See, we all are dead. It's sad, sure. I mean, look at us, all so young and pretty.” (Ember snorted.) “But it's okay. You're among friends. We knew you before, we'll stick together after. We'll take care of you.”

“I'M NOT DEAD!” roared Harry, headache back in full force.

“But you don't remember anything, do you? How do you know you're not dead, hm?” Half's condescendingly soothing tone enraged Harry even further.

“I just know! You're crazy if you think you're dead! Even crazier if you think I am! I'm leaving. You're all nuts!” And with that he turned to escape these lunatics.

“What if we can prove it? Look at your wrist.” Half had got up as well and was tentatively reaching for Harry's arm. “Here, let me show you.”

After a moment of hesitation, Harry let Half gently take his left wrist against better judgment. The ginger lifted their hands and stopped short. “Huh. He's right, gang. He's really not dead.”

Surprised cries followed this revelation and the whole group crowded around them to look at the thin piece of knotted yarn wrapped around Harry's wrist; something he hadn't noticed before and was now eyeing with the same curiosity as the others.

While they were whispering and prodding at the thread, Harry detected that each of them were similarly wearing a string-bracelet around their left wrists. All of theirs were red though, while Harry's was – “White! It's white! Do you see that? It's really white!” BraveHeart nearly pressed his nose into the cotton with agitation.

“It's not all white though. This knot's red. What does that mean?” Wolfe had the scandalising knot between her delicate fingers and looked at Half questioningly.

“I'm not sure.” Half kneaded his lower lip. “But red means dead and white means witness, so maybe one red knot means he... wanted to die?” He darted a glance at Harry who vehemently shook his head... and then hesitated. He suddenly had the oddest feeling, as if, as if maybe, deep down, he had really... but no, impossible...

He shook his head once more. “I don't know what you're talking about. But one thing's for sure: I'm not dead.”

“Yet.” Ember's hoarse voice made Harry shiver.

“No, you're not dead.” Half shot Ember a warning look. “It just doesn't happen so often these days that The Hunt picks up witnesses. My bad. But hey, I'm only Half, dead.”

Harry rolled his eyes. His appetite for jokes had dried up. He wanted answers. “Okay, now, why don't you start at the beginning? What is The Hunt? Witness to what? Why do you think you're all dead?” Harry sat demonstratively back down on the ground and after a second the others followed suit.

Everyone's eyes turned awaitingly to Half who sighed deeply and then started unravelling the surrounding mysteries: “All right, so, we all are part of The Wild Hunt.” He made a big arm gesture, encircling the loud people and animals around them. “Short version: The Hunt is a cortège mostly consisting of ghosts of those who have died a cruel death or at too young an age,” he pointed at Wolfe, BraveHeart, himself and Ember in turn, “and dead or abandoned animals.” He tickled Snowdrop's head. “But sometimes, very rarely really, there are also those we call 'witnesses'. People like you who saw The Hunt and for one reason or other were taken with us. I don't strictly know why or how they pick such people. You'll have to ask Perchta – Holle – the next time you see her. She is one of the two leaders of The Hunt and a mighty supernatural being. You should always be respectful towards her. Her and Berchthold, the other leader, or rather the leader. Perchta, I mean Holle, is more like his second-in-command most of the time.”

Harry nodded. “So, what you're saying is that I got abducted by this ghost procession. And you really are dead, ghosts. Even most of the animals.” Agreement all around. “But, if you are dead and I'm alive then how can you know me?”

“The glow!” squeaked BraveHeart. “It's the glow! We told you!”

“Yes, but what does it mean? You said, it meant that we had met before we died, but I'm not dead.” Harry felt exasperated.

“It simply means, we met you before we died. When we were all alive,” Half picked up the conversation. “In The Hunt when you see something or someone glow like us, it means you know them from your time before The Hunt. More often than not they are little reminders from your old life that's why we call glowing stuff – alive or dead –" (Wolfe started sniggering on that pun.) “Somewhen Things. Things you 'met' sometime in your life but don't remember. Like Snowdrop, she glows for me, I've met her before.” A chorus of 'me too' sounded.

Somewhen Things... Harry had the strange feeling he should probably tell the others that not only the wreath was glowing for him but also the pond. But there was something else that had caught his interest. “Hold on. Does that mean – do you guys also not remember your life before you came here?”

All of them suddenly looked very sad, very young and very vulnerable. Harry felt bad for asking.

Wolfe sniffled a bit, but straightened her pose. “We don't and,” she glanced at the others, “we would love to remember, but the thing is, it's better that we don't. We can never go back and it would just make us unhappy pining after a life we can no longer have.”

Harry saw her with new eyes. She, who had thus far seemed so childish with her constant giggling, had now shown her true greatness. Wolfe was far tougher than she let on and Harry respected her for that.

“But life in The Hunt is fun, we like it here,” added Half. “When we first arrived we were exactly like you, lost, confused and angry, but we were told what we passed on to you just now and we settled in. This is our new home, our new family.” He tenderly looked at the others and finally at Harry. “And you are part of this now, of us.”

Feeling a sudden surge of warmth, Harry had almost a bad conscience for saying the next words: “That is really generous of you all. But as I'm still alive, I think, I'd rather seek a way back to the world of the living.”

The four dead teenagers exchanged silent glances.

Then BraveHeart was practically screaming: “How exciting!”

“Indeed,” concurred Wolfe, grinning broadly, “and based on that, we shall henceforth call you Seeker.”

The gang exploded in laughter and approving clapping, even though Harry tried half-heartedly to quiet them down and tell them that under no circumstances would he be called Seeker. Yet his tries fell on deaf ears, so he gave up and joined into the once again cheerful mood.

“That's not going to be easy, finding a way back,” Half sobered after a while. “I've never heard of anyone who left The Hunt. Besides, where would you go if you don't remember where you came from?”

“I'll cross that bridge when I get there. But true, how do I know the things I know without remembering?”

Half smirked. “Magic! No, really, it's more like amnesia – you remember how to talk, but not what you said.”

Magic. Harry rolled his eyes. It would be magical to get out of The Hunt ASAP.

Half caught that and exchanged furtive looks with the others before sneering. “Seeker, when I met you down at Holle's Pond, did you, I don't know, hear anything unusual?”

“My name is Harry!” growled Harry. Then he furrowed his brows. “Do you mean the bells?”

“Called it!” called BraveHeart and high-fived a smug-looking Ember.

“What?” Harry watched them irritated as they all burst into another peal of laughter.

“The thing is,” panted Wolfe, holding her stomach, “that only Sunday Children can hear the bells of Holle's Pond.”

Harry's eyebrows knitted together. “I was born on a Thursday! ...I think.” He was increasingly annoyed by the renewed delight of his band of comrades.

“It means, haha, it means, you are a magic doer, Seeker! Sunday Children are those born with magic,” BraveHeart tee-heed out of breath.

Harry folded his arms over his chest. “My name is Harry,” he said with a snarl, not at all amused about being called not only dead a few minutes ago but now a wizard? By the name of Seeker? His irritation bubbled up.

It must have shown on his face, since Ember suddenly stopped chortling and declared with a sombre voice: “We all can hear the bells, too. We were all born with magic. We thought you might as well, since The Hunt picked you up at the same castle, we came from some months back. The Hunt often passes through those woods there,” he nodded in agreement with his own words. “We all came from there. We are one.”

That was the most Harry had ever heard him say. What was more, it had deflated Harry's anger somehow and left him with a complicated feeling of wanting to go into two different directions at once, staying here with them and leaving, back to his life.

“All right, I got it,” Harry relented. “Just one more question, yeah? If you're all dead, how come everyone's eating and drinking around here?”

Half arched an eyebrow. “Nourishment for the soul. Also: magic!”

“You can't answer everything with 'magic'!” But Harry laughed at that.

From somewhere, a hunting horn sounded.

While they had been talking, it had got dark again due to the heavy storm clouds overhead.

“Almost time to go,” whispered BraveHeart and Harry's funny friends all turned solemn. The horses were made to stand up, the fire was extinguished. All around them, people did those same things.

“Here you are, Seeker.” (“Harry!”) Wolfe was offering him a rainbow-coloured horseback cover, while Half unasked hung a satchel over Harry's shoulder. “Up in the saddle. In a way.”

Harry eyed Lightning with scepticism. “I can't ride.”

Half grinned humourlessly. “It's really easy: Don't fall down!” He mounted Gee which had, Harry doubled back, six legs. Okay.

On Harry's other side, Wolfe was already on Binky's back, while Ember helped BraveHeart onto Grapes and then turned towards Harry.

“Er, I – oh, okay, thanks, er, Ember,” Harry stuttered as the hulk lifted him onto Lightning without further ado. Harry felt severely unsafe and grabbed the reins tighter than explicitly necessary. Sweat was rolling down his back. But if he ever wanted a chance to get out of The Hunt, he had to leave this valley first. And horseback seemed to be the only way out.

“All right there, Seeker?” Half came up on his right side, Snowdrop on his shoulder.

“It's Harry,” hissed Harry, too scared to fall down for an argument.

“Okay, so what you need to do is this: Just follow Berchthold on Sleipnir. He knows the way.” Half was serious for once and pointed in the distance where Harry could make out a lone rider, halfway up the slope.

Even from afar, Harry could tell he was a gigantic man, sitting on a gigantic eight-legged pale white horse. Berchthold, leader of The Wild Hunt, wearing a green hunting attire, was enveloped in an ever-moving storm cloud that lay on his shoulders like a cloak and similar to Holle, he had an iron chain wound around his hips. He, too, was sprouting horns from his head, though in his case they were rather impressive antlers. Most prominent feature however was the red and black half-mask^[3] that covered the right side of his face contrasting sharply with his fair skin.

Meanwhile, what made him stand apart from any other entity Harry had ever laid eyes upon was his raw existence. There was no better word for it. In a way comparable to Holle's presence was Berchthold's the exact opposite in feeling. While Holle was exuberantly alive, Berchthold was oppressing like ringing silence. He was thunder and lightning and yet he was the eye of the storm, most deadly, most powerful. Harry felt the hairs on his arms standing upright. This man was doom laced with an unsettling amount of peace.

As Harry had been watching, Holle had fluttered next to Berchthold. She looked even tinier next to the huge ghost rider.

Harry shuddered. He had the most bizarre feeling that they were looking at him.

It thundered.

He quickly shook off the thought and turned his gaze away. It was almost unbearable to observe those two so close together anyway. It hurt his eyes like looking directly into flickering lights.

“Everyone ready to rumble?” Half's peppy voice was harsh in the suddenly up-picking storm winds.

Harry nodded faintly and saw the others do the same. His gaze stopped on Ember who was still on foot and now that Harry thought about it, he realised that there was no horse left. “What about Ember?”

Wolfe turned a prancing Binky towards him, her face nervous. “Ember is infantry, so to speak. He – he did something not so great in life and that's why they wouldn't give him a horse and make him a hunter. But don't worry. He's a fast runner.”

Harry stared at her. “Are you saying you have him run alongside us the whole way?”

“That's all right,” Ember had appeared next to Lightning. “I'm used to it.”

The uneasy feeling was back, stronger than before. 'Something not so great'. Yeah, Harry could totally see that, with Ember having 'nasty personality' basically written all over him. Harry just didn't like the cinder. There was something about him... but then again... 'We are one', he'd said. Harry sighed. “Get up, Lightning is strong. He can carry two.” He held out his hand for Ember to grab.

The scorched boy looked at him. “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” Harry said valiantly and wished he hadn't the moment Ember's heavy body squished in behind him on Lightning's back. Strong arms surrounded his waist and the stench of burning was all over him.

And suddenly he was flying. Different arms, a different boy, but the same smell. 'The door, get to the door, the door!' rang a familiar yet unfamiliar voice in his head and for a split-second he remembered blond hair and storm grey eyes and an ache so sweet, so old clawed its way to his heart, making him gasp.

It was over before it really began. Harry was back with the others and they were getting ready to leave.

“Halali! Death-haloo!” Berchthold's booming voice sounded like thunder. The Hunt started moving.

Chapter Text

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, the Wizengamot sentences you for complicit Death Eatery to a lifetime in A–"

“Acquitted! We're acquitted!” Someone shook Draco's shoulder hard and rattled him back to reality. “Acquitted!” His mother's normally so dignified voice was high pitched like a little girl's as she dug her detention-imposed un-manicured nails deep into Draco's upper arm.

Acquitted. Huh. Draco let out a long-held breath. Who would have seen that coming? Not him, that's for sure. Right up until the end of the trial he had been certain that he would spend the rest of his life in a cell in Azkaban – whether that would have been a long solitude or a short dread till receiving the Dementor's Kiss.

Draco felt dizzy. The dark walled dungeon of a courtroom was full of chatter and movement. Members of the newly reassembled Wizengamot made their way towards the door, not paying any attention to the Malfoy family who had been up until just now accused war criminals. Yet the verdict was said, the trial was done, there was a sense of relief in the air.

“Let's get out of here,” whispered his father into his ear after uncharacteristically hugging both, his wife and his son, in his arms. He smelt of sweat, but Draco didn't mind.

“Where to though? Is the Manor...?” Narcissa Malfoy looked uncertain.

“It's all taken care of. All your properties are as of now returned into your custody,” said their appointed lawyer witch (a new thing, appointed lawyers) and pushed up her glasses. “Now, if you just sign here, you're free to go.”

While his parents eagerly reached for the offered quill to retrieve their freedom, Draco's gaze flew across the room and landed on the key witness of this trial.

His thoughts went to the past.

Back then, after weeks in holding (not in Azkaban, but in some quickly reinforced interrogation room turned make-shift cell in the Ministry's dungeons), their lawyer had visited Draco unannounced.

Without preamble she had come in, sat down across him and declared that Harry Bloody Potter, War Hero Par Excellence, was going to be witness for the defence, because (she had used air-quotes here) “it's the right thing” and that poor, helpless Draco should just state the facts, be remorseful, stick to the sob story of a misguided child, appear pitiful (no problem there, incarceration did nothing for Draco's looks) and let Potter handle the rest.

At that point Draco had suppressed a groan and had just nodded. If Potter had gone cray cray after saving the British wizarding world and needed an ego-boost, who was Draco to deny him a little helper-syndrome fun?

Besides – and Draco would rather rot than ever say this out loud – it would be good to see Potter again. That unruly black mop, those bony wrists that had pulled Draco from the fire...

“All set.” The folder snapped shut. “Now: Have a good life.” With that, their lawyer left them, quite unceremoniously.

“Time to go home.” Lucius Malfoy must have really been touch starved, because he took Draco's hand as if the latter was a ten-year-old. It was his mother though, who with a sharp jerk of her head towards the crowd that washed around Potter, stated: “We need to say goodbye.”

Lucius stiffened, but quickly regained his composure (a feat, considering his prisoner's clothes), bobbing his head once in agreement.

The little family made its way through the masses and reached Potter who seemed to be busy shaking hands while simultaneously... receiving gifts? Typical. Draco's life was on the brink of doom and Potter celebrated his own greatness.

“Ahem.” Lucius cleared his throat, effectively silencing all onlookers. “Mr. Potter, I would like to offer gratitude for you graciously lending your hand to–"

“I didn't do it for you,” cut Potter in with a stern face and added after a brief glance at Narcissa. “Neither of us did.”

Draco suddenly felt three pairs of eyes on him. He didn’t go red, but a pink tinge appeared in his pale cheeks. What was that supposed to mean? Did Potter just insinuate that he had helped with the trial for Draco? Surely not. But Potter stared at him so intensely that Draco could do nothing but stare back. Oh Merlin.

“We'll wait in the Atrium for you, darling,” said Narcissa Malfoy crisply and pulled her bewildered husband away with her. “Thank you again, Mr. Potter!” she called over her shoulder.

Draco blinked. What the...?

His gaze slipped back to Potter who was unnervingly still looking at him with that weird expression.

What do you say to someone you had hearty loathing for for seven years and then had some moments of silent agreement with during wartime?

“Potter.” Draco dipped his head and steered for the exit.

He had only made it three steps down the corridor though when Potter's hand slipped under his elbow and manoeuvred him through the closest door into the very waiting room Draco had met his parents again after not having had seen them in weeks. The feelings of happiness about the reunion and trepidation on the prospect of maybe never seeing them again after today still hung in the air like invisible smoke and made Draco suddenly claustrophobic.

“Hands off, Potter! Think only because you're everyone's Golden Boy, you can touch me however you like now? Fat chance.” Draco forcefully pulled his arm free from the other's grip.

Potter rolled his eyes. The audacity. “Oh, come off it, Malfoy. I just wanted to talk to you in private, is all. Besides,” here, he grinned bitterly, “what's there to touch anyway? You're only skin and bones.”

“And whose fault is that, I wonder? Couldn't get me out sooner now, could you?” spat Draco. How dare Potter talk to him like that when he himself looked like a walking World Hunger Aid ad? Seriously, did that boy never eat?

“Are you saying it's my–? You know what? Forget it. I simply wanted to give this back to you.”

Potter pulled out a wand which made Draco flinch back violently. Was this payback all along? Eyes wide, Draco stood frozen.

As did Potter whose brows knitted together. “Malfoy...”

“I'm sorry! I know I should have said it earlier and I know it doesn't mean anything now, but I'm sorry! I'm sorry for all the petty arguments and the tricks I played on you and, no, let's be honest, I'm not sorry about those, but I am sorry about all the other things. I never wanted you expelled or hurt or worse. I didn't know what I was doing, I didn't know it would turn out like this. I was blind to the consequences and I didn't, I didn't... I... Potter...” All of this had cascaded out of Draco involuntarily and in his inner turmoil he had crossed the space between them, totally ignoring the still poised wand, and had now both his hands dug in Potter's front, standing face to face with the Saviour.

“Erm, I just wanted to give you back your wand?” Up close, Potter looked taken aback and flustered, weakly offering Draco the wand he now recognised as his own. “But, apology accepted. I guess.”

Draco flushed scarlet and let go of Potter's robes as if they were burning, taking two steps back. Glancing this way and that but unable to meet the other's eyes, he reached for the powerful piece of wood, then hesitated. “Are you sure? I mean, you won it fair and square and... you defeated the Dark Lord with it.”

“I'm sure. I like my own wand better.” Potter pulled a second wand from his pocket. This time Draco remained calm. “Besides, I'm positive your wand will always remember me.”

Whatever that was supposed to mean.

“Well, if you're certain...” When Draco's fingers touched the wooden surface it felt welcoming like the warmth of his mother's hug after their long separation. “Lumos,” he said tenderly and watched the tip light up in a soft glow. “Thank you,” he croaked, “and thank you for,” he made a vague hand gesture, “all this. And... for saving my life. Twice.” The last words were barely a whisper.

“Couldn't have done it if you had given me away at the Manor. If you'd identified me then, I would have been too dead to save you.” Potter managed to grin, that idiot.

Draco snorted. “Yeah, well, no one could have recognised that mug. Whatever did you do to your face back then?”

Potter shrugged. “Hermione burnt me.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Where is your entourage anyway?”

“Australia.”

Seemed like that was all the answer Draco was getting. Not that he cared.

He cleared his throat. “Well, for what it's worth, I'm glad you're not dead.”

Their eyes locked, taking them both back to the agonising moments of eternity when Potter had indeed been dead for Draco. To the snippet of infinity when, after all hell had broken loose with Potter's 'resurrection', they had passed each other in the crowd. Just a split-second they had held each other's gaze. Blazing green eyes on tear filled grey ones and Draco had known that Potter had understood that Draco had been crying for Harry. Because that one time, in all of Draco's life, Potter had been Harry to him, in the seconds when Draco's last remaining piece of happy childhood had shattered to smithereens with Harry's death.

“Good, because I'm glad I'm not dead, too,” tried Potter to ease the mood. Yet there was a hint of something else that Draco couldn't quite place.

He huffed, but followed suit. “Whatever, Scarhead.”

“Git.”

“Four-eyes!”

“...I really missed you this year, you know? I missed us.” Potter blushed despite his solemn tone. “I mean the banter.”

God, what was wrong with this guy? Draco felt his heart flutter awkwardly. “Could you stop sounding like a cheap romance novel?”

Potter grinned at that. “But you're giving me such good groundwork! Anyway, I think it's high time for this, don't you agree?” He held out his hand to shake Draco's and after a moment, Draco took it.

It felt right.

Just two boys shaking hands. Seven years too late. Or maybe at just the right time, for a new start.

Chapter Text

“Okay, so... this Peanut,” (“Potter.”) “was taken by The Wild Hunt, a group of mystical ghost riders. You witnessed that. Therefore, you want to help him and that's why we have to research The Hunt to find him?” The Weasel looked questioningly at Draco, who could all but suppress an annoyed eye roll.

How many times was that now? Five? Ten? But he had to be patient and repeat the purpose of their meeting every now and then or else the other two would slowly forget.

“Yes.”

The redhead huffed exasperatedly and flopped himself onto the table they had all been sitting around for some time, talking in circles. “Research, ugh. I thought I was done with school work for a lifetime! Is he really worth all the hassle?”

“He's worth it.” Draco didn't even have to think about the answer. Of course Potter was worth it.

Granger, who had been sitting quietly, studying the nursery rhyme about The Hunt that Draco had hastily written down for them, looked up at this.

“You must really like him,” she said with a thoughtful expression.

Draco felt heat creeping up his collar. “It's not like that. I just owe him, is all. He saved my life during the war. Yours, too, I'd wager. Lots of times, probably.”

“Sounds like a good guy,” the Weasel mused, while Granger's gaze dropped back onto the paper.

“He is. Good to a fault. That's why he deserves some rescuing himself this time round,” Draco sighed.

They'd been at it for a while now and hadn't really got anywhere. He was starting to feel a headache forming.

When the Golden Couple had entered the hunt for The Hunt, he had been hopeful. After all, Potter had managed to win a bloody war with these two at his side. Yet the more often Draco had to repeat the great Potter vanishing act story, the more despaired he'd become. They wouldn't be able to help him, if they couldn't remember what Draco told them. It was useless. He was just about to say as much and bid his guests farewell, when Granger suddenly nodded, as if to herself.

“All right, I think I've got it now.”

Both boys stared at her.

“Yes. This is what we need to do: Ron, you take this. Geminio!” She flicked her wand, duplicated Draco's hand-written lines and handed the copy to her boyfriend. “And I'll keep this one,” waving the original in her hand, she continued, “so that we won't forget about The Hunt. I feel like I figured out how the mind trick works in this case. We can't research about abducted people or their erased memories, because that is inherently countered by The Hunt's magic. So that won't work. What we can do, though, is look up The Hunt itself. I know,” she held up her hand to stop Draco from indignantly interrupting her by pointing out that he had been saying that all along, “you said that before, but you missed the crucial point. You're concentrating on finding Piedro and tell us about him every five minutes. But that just triggers the memory erasure. So, what we, Ron and I, have got to do is focus on The Hunt and only that. We can recall things related to the phenomenon as long as it doesn't touch Party. So, stop reminding us about him and we might actually figure this out. Because, while looking for The Hunt, we'll find out about the kidnapped people eventually, I'm sure,” she finished, looking at her audience expectantly.

Draco had to admit that it made sense. Investigating The Hunt meant ultimately locating it and with it, Potter. Which was what he'd been suggesting from the beginning. Yet... Granger might be on to something with the not-mentioning about Scarhead for now. If they could keep the information about The Hunt better this way....

“All right,” he acquiesced. “So, researching The Hunt. For that I suggest we go and have a look at the books at Hogwarts.”

The girl nodded. “Good idea. But that might not be enough for such a specific topic. I was thinking – isn't there an actual wizarding library somewhere?”

Draco and the Weasel shared a confused look.

“What do you mean? We were literally just talking about the library at Hogwarts.” Weasley crinkled his nose. “Did you forget that?”

“No,” the witch's wild hair was flying, “I wasn't talking about the castle. I meant a public library. A house just for books,” she added when seeing the puzzled faces of the boys.

“What purpose would that have?” the ginger wondered out loud what Draco was thinking.

“Well, to go and borrow books, of course. Take them home and read them, then return them. That way, you don't have to buy them,” explained Granger in a teacher-voice.

“Is that a Muggle thing?” asked Draco, weirdly fascinated by the thought of a house exclusively built for books.

“Er, yes, I suppose. Judging from your reactions anyway,” she replied carefully.

Draco suddenly became acutely aware that the look she was giving him was one of wariness. As if, any moment now, he could turn his nose on the library idea just because it was Muggle. He took a deep breath. Maybe she wasn't so far off. If it had been a few months back, he might have. But now, things were different. And a wizarding library sounded like a bloody brilliant idea. Too bad it didn't exist.

“We don't have anything like that, I'm afraid. Libraries are more of a family matter. Like, all pure-blood families have private libraries at home and then obviously there is Hogwarts,” Draco elucidated.

The bookworm turned to her boyfriend. “Really? Have you got a library at The Burrow?”

“Er, well, not really. I mean, we have a few books, but honestly... you know our house, Hermione, we don't have space for a room just for books. Where would we put that?”

Draco made his best effort not to look scandalised. Seriously those Weasleys were worse blood traitors than he'd ever– no, he cut himself off halfway. He mustn't think of the freckled lot as blood traitors anymore. He swore to himself to leave those bigoted ways behind him. But still, how could anyone not have a private library? Pft, heathens.

“You have one though,” veered the bushy-headed witch round Draco, “up in the Manor.” It wasn't really a question.

“Yes,” was his reluctant response. He wasn't comfortable with where this was heading.

“Excellent.” Granger clapped her hands and looked all at once very enthusiastic. “You go there first then. Ron, you'll check if there's a library at Grimmauld Place, I'll take Hogwarts and then we all meet back here in, let's say– what?”

There were a lot of 'whats' that Draco could think of in that sentence. Starting from the fact that he didn't like to be ordered around. Mostly though: “How do you know about the old Black house at Grimmauld Place, Granger?” And where had he recently heard this name before, Draco wondered.

She blinked. “Ah, yeah, we... sort of lived there for a while? Last year when we were on the run from Voldemort.”

Draco recoiled by the sound of the hated name. Still, he managed to send both of them incredulous looks. “You lived in my ancestors' house? You? And Weasley?” 'And Potter...?', he added silently.

“No need to sound so offended. It's not like any of you lot took good care of that dust-hole in ages,” Weasley scoffed and folded his arms over his chest. “Besides, you couldn't get in now even if you wanted to. The house is under a Fidelius Charm and you're not in on it.” Suddenly his eyes went small. “Or are you? Did your Death Eater pal Yaxley tell you the secret?”

Connecting the dots, Draco abruptly felt a wave of cold splashing over him. “No, he didn't. To be more precise, he couldn't, since he had only been taken there but not explicitly told the location. They tried to get it out of him though...” His voice cracked a bit. “He was fixated upside down in mid-air in the parlour for days. I–" The image had brought back others. Draco started trembling. “Excuse me. I need to fetch more tea.”

His legs gave out before he even reached the door and he crumbled to the floor. His predominant feeling at this embarrassment should have been being flustered but all he felt was dread. He had tried to face the past, but it still wasn't easy to relive certain events. Especially when they came unexpectedly.

“Malfoy, Malfoy! Man, are you okay?” Kneeling down on either side of Draco were Granger and Weasley, the latter gently but urgently shaking his shoulder.

“Fine,” Draco croaked. But he felt like shit. He had to tell them. Not that he particularly wanted to, but for Potter's sake, he would. He gulped in a lungful of air. “I'm fine. But I, that is,” he closed his eyes, “I can't go back into the Manor. I just, I can't. I can tell you were to go, but you'll have to go without me.”

Being unable to enter the Manor had come gradually. It had been uncomfortable to go back there after the trial but the haunting feeling of bone-crushing guilt had only crept in piece by piece, day by day. Until in the end, Draco couldn't even look at his childhood home anymore without having to breathe heavily. He had thought he was handling it though, slowly but surely.

Until now.

“Yeah, all right,” the Weasel's hand was still firmly on Draco's shoulder, somewhat grounding him in the here and now. “I'll go in alone. No,” the redhead's grip intensified, “you shouldn't go either, Hermione. Not after everything that happened to you in there.” Draco's quivering redoubled and he felt how dangerously close he was to a full-blown panic attack. Granger on the floor, screaming; Potter, dead in Professor Hagrid's arms and–

“It's okay now.” A warm female arm wrapped itself around Draco softly. “I'm okay. You're okay. We're okay. It's all good.”

Draco was clinging to the words barely audible over the ringing in his ears and after a while, when he came down from his tremor, he realised that words hadn't been the only thing he had clung to: His hands were grasping tightly to one arm of Granger and the Weasel each, who were awkwardly spooning him from both sides.

Draco coughed, feeling a tinge of red in his cheeks. But he also felt grateful.

Granger took the hint. She straightened. “Good, so, new plan. Malfoy and I will go to Grimmauld Place and Ron, do you think you'll be all right going into the Manor alone?”

“I'll manage.” The freckled boy gave her a reassuring smile. “And after we meet back here?”

“Yeah,” Granger agreed.

Draco nodded silently.

***

“You, Draco Malfoy, are hereby allowed to see and enter number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London, the former Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix,” Granger announced in earnest tone, after she and Draco had arrived on snow-covered pavement seconds before.

Draco felt a surge of utter annoyance at the wording – as if he needed to be allowed into his own great aunt's house. Although it seemed that the Fidelius Charm had thought so, since only after the Secret-Keeper had finished did the house front before them move to either side and gave view to number twelve that had previously been hidden between number eleven and thirteen.

It was quite the spectacle, but Draco's thoughts were elsewhere when they climbed the stairs to the entrance. Something was niggling at the back of his mind. “Granger...”

“Ah, someone must have removed the Trip-Wire Entry Spell. Good thing, too, since it was designed to affect Dumbledore's killer and, er..." She glanced at Draco as they entered the dimly lit hallway.

His face went dark. “And that's why you brought me here, isn't it? But I didn't kill him.”

“I know! Snape did and with good reasons!” his companion hastily assured.

“But you're wondering if I wanted to kill Dumbledore. This was a test,” Draco laughed bitterly. Of course, how could he have imagined people would just forgive him so easily? He felt feeble.

“No!” said Granger, but her quickly averting eyes said 'yes'.

“...I never wanted to kill anyone. Not really. Do you want me to take Veritaserum to prove it?”

She blushed, clearly feeling caught. “No, er... I believe you. Hrm, anyway, I think the library is on the second floor so why don't we–"

“Was that it? Can I go now?” Draco's hurt shone through his words although he tried his best to hide it. Believe him, my ass.

Granger looked bewildered. “Go?”

“Well, as you obviously took me here to verify something and seeing that that didn't work, can I go now? I was thinking it felt strange that you wanted to go together to the Black library. When three people going to three different libraries at the same time is so much more efficient. And don't tell me you needed me to carry books or some-such, you're a rather capable witch after all.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the bushy-haired girl in front of him who had the decency to look guilty.

“I'm sorry, Malfoy.” Granger faced him now, eyes serious. “I wasn't sure, all right? You've pulled elaborate pranks on us before. Though, to be honest, I think you're speaking the truth this time. It's only that you keep evading when we ask you about... Palmer. See, I just don't understand your motivation.”

Draco huffed. “I told you: I'm doing this because someone's in trouble and needs saving. And weren't you the one who said not to bring up Potter so you would remember The Hunt better?”

Ignoring the last sentence, she narrowed her eyes at him. “So what, are you saying that you've got a bit of a people-saving thing?” She looked confused for a moment as if she had wanted to speak different words. Then she shook her head. “I don't know, but that frankly doesn't sound much like you. So why can't you just be honest with me? Look at it from this side: Everything you tell me now, I'll probably forget because it has something to do with Pipkin.”

“Potter,” Draco sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. If he'd learnt one thing about Granger during their years in school together it was that she was persistent. And really, would it hurt to say it out loud once? “Okay, fine, maybe – possibly – I might want to help him because I... miss him. I mean, after the war... with him is the only place I feel truly safe.”

She nodded. “Because he's your friend.”

“We're not strictly... friends.” Draco cringed a bit.

Granger's eyebrows shot up. “Oh, I get it. Sorry. Because he's your boyfriend.”

“What? No! Absolutely not! Where on earth did you get that idea? That he and I, that we–” The thought itself was too embarrassing to finish. “We're definitely not... not... not that!”

But the big grin on the Golden Girl's face spoke volumes of the amount she was buying into Draco's assurances.

He felt way too hot. Time to change the topic. “You were saying second floor, yes?” With that he briskly walked ahead up the stairs with a still broadly smiling Granger trailing behind him.

“Did you know?” she asked chipper. “There used to hang a portrait of your great aunt Walburga here. She insulted everyone passing by. Guess someone took it down. Well, good riddance if you ask me. She was very annoying.”

'So are you right now,' thought Draco, but he didn't voice it. It was his own fault for being so forthcoming with a nosy Gryffindor. He exhaled slowly. It had felt good though to say these things for once. Keeping his feelings inside all the time was tiring. Maybe having a forgetful outlet for Potter stuff wasn't the worst side-effect of this disaster.

They had reached the second floor and upon opening several doors (one of which was a cosy looking bedroom that had, despite the abandonment of the house, a warm, lived-in feeling to it) they had finally found Grimmauld Place' private library. A room which turned out to be big, naturally lit and somewhat friendly, with a round fluffy rug dominating the spacious middle between walls and walls filled with books. To Draco though, it seemed a bit weird that there was basically no dust to be seen anywhere.

“Well, this looks promising!” Granger's eyes were sparkling with excitement. “How about you take the left side and I take the right?”

“How about,” drawled a paper-thin voice from behind, making them both jump, “you tell me what the Mudblood and young Master Malfoy are doing here in my Mistress' house.”

The smartypants put her hand to her heart. “Geez, Kreacher! You scared the hell out of us! Er, hello, how have you been?”

Draco eyed the old house-elf that had popped up next to the large window warily. He vaguely remembered seeing him once at the Manor. On Death Eater business.

“Kreacher doesn't know why the Mudblood thinks she can talk to Kreacher freely, Kreacher doesn't know,” the creature whispered loudly.

It was his own guilt mixed with the new-found need of her assistance that made Draco go “Don't call her that!” in a slightly louder voice than anticipated.

The house-elf startled. “Of course. Kreacher will do as young Master Malfoy says.” He bowed.

The following silence was thick with unpleasant emotions of various kinds. Granger was a bit pale as she finally turned to Draco: “Thank you. Though I don't understand why this was necessary.” Her eyes searching Kreacher's. “You haven't called me a, that, for a long time now. I thought we were getting friendly while Ron and I lived here? Is it, were you lonely? Are you mad we didn't come visit. I'm sorry, Kreacher, we were busy.”

Hearing a witch talk thusly to a house-elf didn't sit well with Draco at all. Lonely servants. Laughable. But when he contemplated the wrinkled-skinned little fellow, his views wavered as Kreacher's bloodshot eyes had a longing look to them, if only for a moment.

“Kreacher doesn't have to answer the M– girl. Kreacher only has to answer to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Young Master Malfoy, how can Kreacher be of service?” He bowed again.

Draco exchanged looks with Granger. She was distraught, he could tell, but determination settled in as she nodded once. “Why don't you see what useful books you can find here and meanwhile I head to Hogwarts alone? I think this might go faster with Kreacher's help.”

The house-elf shook his bat-like ears. “Kreacher doesn't know about the books, but the M– girl is not to touch them! Oh, if my Mistress knew, she would cry.”

“I think that's a splendid idea, Granger. Go on ahead to Hogwarts,” Draco said loudly, “and take Kreacher with you. He will go and help with patching up the castle until further notice.”

Kreacher's snout-like nose wobbled when he stared at Draco with as much indignation as he could muster. He didn't talk back though.

Granger smiled faintly. She had understood that Draco's order was in Kreacher's best interest. After all, the elf would hardly be lonely in Hogwarts.

“All right.” The girl shook her bushy curls and gave the room a scrutinising look. “Malfoy, what do you think about setting up shop here rather than your place? No offence, but the gatehouse is awfully small. Here, however, we would have enough space to store and categorise books.”

Draco agreed with this assessment. “That would be better.”

“Good, then I'll send Ron a Patronus to meet us here later. Kreacher, let's go.” With that she took an unwilling Kreacher's hand and Disapparated with a loud crack.

Draco was left alone, but he felt hopeful. There were books to scan.

***

The day had turned into evening and from somewhere on the mantelpiece of the gently crackling fireplace in Grimmauld Place' library it chimed 8 o'clock on Boxing Day.

Draco yawned, stretched his arms over his head and rolled over on his back. That wasn't hard to do since for some time now all three of them had been lying prone on the fluffy rug. At first Draco had vehemently refused and widely sneered at such a behaviour, yet after a while he found that it was more comfortable to join the Golden Couple on the floor and also more convenient when they were exchanging books, scrolls and hand-written parchments back and forth over a single bottle of ink in the middle of their circle, three quills dipped in.

In the beginning, it had been a tense, awkward atmosphere, with all of them being uncomfortable with each other, their shared history hanging in the room like suffocating smoke. But soon the familiarity of 'doing homework with schoolmates' had taken over, making them all ease up a little until they found in the silence a productive companionship. For the moment at least.

As if Draco's little break had been an inspiration, the Weasel followed suit by flopping onto his back with a groan. “I don't think I ever want to read another word in my life.”

“Don't be such a child, Ronald! We've only scratched the surface.” Granger clapped her book shut and rearranged herself to sit cross-legged.

“I know,” whined the redhead, arms over his face, “but this surface is already a chaotic heap of tangled nonsense and honestly, Hermione, one more book and I'll go crazy.”

Draco bit his lip hard and blinked away the upcoming mocking reply that tried to climb out of his mouth. He succeeded in turning the spiteful comment into a tame snort which was echoed by one of Granger's.

“All right, so how about we take stock of what we have so far?” she suggested.

Another moan from Weasley. “Again? We did that like a hundred times already.”

“Yes, but in case all our notes disappear overnight,” (A howl from the ginger.) “Malfoy needs to be able to recall everything we've found out today. Besides, you and I keep forgetting things, so repetition is key in this case, wouldn't you agree?” She gave her boyfriend a stern look.

“Sure, whatever you say,” he sighed, accepting his fate.

Draco had hoped that with the promising amount of references to The Hunt in several books from the three libraries, they would make fast progress and have Potter home for dinner time. However, the longer the research took the more Draco had realised that it wouldn't be so easy after all. Stories about The Hunt were strewn all over, some in unreadable griffonage, some in foreign languages. He dealt with the French ones and Granger had some ideas about others here and there, but they all stumbled over German texts that were few and far between for the apparent reason that the fable of The Hunt seemed to have been first written down by famous Muggle fairy tale teller Jacob Grimm (a fact that had earnt Draco a suspicious glance from the redhead). Draco's stomach churned at the thought of Potter all alone with blood-thirsty horror characters in a group of ghosts. Nothing to be done now though. Potter would take care of himself somehow. Draco had to believe that and work towards his rescue as fast as possible – even if that meant starting at snail's pace at the moment.

The Weasel reached for a closely written page. “I'll start then, yes? Okay, so The Wild Hunt, also abbreviated to The Hunt, is a phenomenon that is known in wide parts of Western and Middle Europe as well as Scandinavia and Canada. The stories about The Hunt vary strongly depending on the country or even region, as is seen in Germany where there can be found up to nine different versions. What most of them have in common is that The Hunt is a procession of (fabulous) animals and people said to be ghosts or the souls of the lost. They predominantly travel on horseback in the sky, although there is also a variation with them sitting in a giant canoe or fishing boat or versions with them riding pigs instead of horses. There are reports in which they wear masks or look demonic and they appear often during winter storms, which fits with the frequently mentioned appearance period of Yule- or Twelvetide. Although The Hunt is also quoted to be in action during other big religious holidays, winter seems to be the main time of activity. Its manifestations are regularly connected to pending doom or death.”

Granger nodded. “Exactly and it is spearheaded by a leader, who also serves as the cavalcade's crier. Depending on the stories’ origin, he is said to be various persons, can be either male or female. Among the 20 personae we've found so far, more often than not the leader is described as a man riding a pale horse. Among other things he is called winter, hell hunter, king of the nation of the wind, lord of storms or even the god of magic. He is thought to carry either a club or a crossbow as well as a harp or a hunting horn. He hunts prey but there are stories of him chasing a woman – his companion or even his alter ego in other tales – or a folk of little forest people that might be fae or other beings. But at times he supposedly hunts down wrongdoers until they can no longer run. Some say he can see the future with his right eye and that he can shape-shift into things or animals, particularly into a stag. Also, he's frequently accompanied by a right hand man or woman – or dog.”

They had done this a few times already and Draco was impressed by the others' resilience, especially since he was sure that by now both of them had completely forgotten about the original reason for starting the research: Potter.

Now they sort of found a rhythm in rendering their notes and Draco knew his cue. “Which brings us to the most ambiguous character in The Hunt stories: the crone. Known under 21 names so far, some call her spring, guardian of the treasures of the interior of the earth, of weaving and of the doors between worlds; queen of heaven or indeed the goddess of hearth, birth and crossroads. People say she holds a golden or silver bow and arrows, a stick, dagger, whip or hunting net as a weapon, as well as a torch, spindle and keys. She is ever and anon connected to plants such as elder which is dedicated to her, wheat for spring or stinging nettles that are to ward off misfortune. The latter can come upon you if she feels you deserve punishment, yet she is also known to give out rewards such as protection from fires. Which makes sense since she can conjure snow and hail. Oh, and also her breath can blind people. In some versions, she used to be young and beautiful once, but she is more often pictured as an old woman. She can also be a man, a raven, a black kite or, as dog, leader of the pack of hellhounds that travel with The Hunt's fugleman, who is sometimes identified to be said crone herself. So basically the leader and the old woman are two sides of the same coin.”

The ginger huffed. “And that is not confusing at all. I mean is the leader a guy or his right hand woman or is she the leader and he's her right hand man and which of them is riding in a wagon if any at all? Moreover, does he hunt her or is she part of The Hunt? And what's with the story where houses built on old roads get trampled but people are safe as long as they stand exactly in the middle of the street? Also, The Hunt brings doom but sometimes it's a good omen? Same as that leader being described as a demon, yet protector of the poor? This all doesn't make sense!”

“Right, we'll figure that out later. But what about the witnesses?” Granger thumped through a thick tome until she found the right passage. “'The Wild Hunt is known to be peaceful if not provoked, however it can happen that people with a strong affinity to death who witness the cortège are taken. That distinguishes them from the dead who join willingly. There are also unconfirmed accounts of vanishing memories about witnesses. Apparently only the most powerful kind of connection lets them remain.' I think that this might explain what happened to Peacock,” (Draco looked up, he was surprised she still remembered enough to use a false Potter name.) “which is probably that, because he got taken alive, memories of him went away with him. Whereas the memories of the dead stay behind because they went on their own free will. Does that make sense?” She looked at Draco. “What about the affinity to death bit though? Do you think... he had a death wish?”

An unnerving thought. Draco wanted to say 'never' but images of a worn-out, grey-faced Potter during Hogwarts patches came to mind and as much as he tried to laugh at the idea that the Saviour didn't enjoy life, he knew better. “I'm not sure, but... it's not entirely impossible. I think he feels guilty a lot.”

His two companions were silent. Then: “Can you tell us a bit about him? About Pappel?”

The request came as a surprise. Draco's eyebrows lifted themselves without his permission. “But you said it's better I don't mention Potter all the time. For your memory.”

“Yeah, but,” it was Weasley who answered, hand awkwardly on his neck, “we just want to know, you know. What he's like. Even if we forget instantly. For instance what does he have to feel guilty about?”

“Nothing,” said Draco as he put his hand to his chest for a moment. “It's just that he's a do-gooder kind of person and he blames himself for every death he couldn't prevent.”

Weasley had propped himself up on his elbows and was watching Draco with rapt attention now. “So Piggledy fought in the war?”

“Of course he did. Potter was basically the drive behind the whole resistance. But his huge ego wouldn't have survived if he hadn't pulled a solo – sorry, trio – stunt and had vanished for half a year, doing who-knows-what.” Draco rolled his eyes.

“Are you saying he was on the run with us?” Granger demanded, eagerness of her face.

“Oh, he sure was. Until he wasn't, that is. Actually, you two can just imagine an invisible third party following you around all last year. That would sum it up nicely,” retorted Draco with a sneer.

“That's not a creepy image at all,” Granger shuddered. “But, 'huge ego' – he was arrogant then? Is that why you got along so well?”

At that, Draco raised an eyebrow at her. That girl really had some guts to challenge him so blatantly. All right, have it her way, but he wouldn't play. “We don't get along,” he said dryly, examining his nails. “He is all that I am not: kind, forgiving, brave – also, easily flustered, oblivious and way too much of a bleeding heart type. In conclusion, he drives me up the walls. And don't talk about him in past tense.”

“Gee, Malfoy, stop the gushing, will you? If you keep spouting cheesy love confessions about my supposedly best friend, I'll hurl.” The Weasel made a gagging noise.

Draco felt fire creeping up his face as he almost shouted: “There was NO love confession!”

“Sounded like one to me.” The ginger shrugged, while grinning from ear to ear.

Huffing, Draco turned away and crossed his arms over his chest. Now that Potter wasn't here, Weasley seemed to have taken over at keeping Draco annoyed. Great, just great.

“Anyhow, he was at The Battle of Hogwarts? And fought Voldemort with us?” Granger's eyes still showed signs of mirth but had gone serious once again.

Draco ignored the shiver, instead he put as much haughtiness as possible into the next words: “He did the fighting. It was bloody hero Potter who defeated the Dark Lord while you all just gawked at him. Did it with this very wand.” He held up his magic stick and twirled it around.

“Ha! Yeah, right. He can also fly, has fought a dragon and shits rainbows, your mighty Pooper. Come off it, Malfoy – you sound like Luna!” Weasley cackled and rolled on the floor, laughing.

“I'll have you know,” drawled Draco, suddenly in high dudgeon on Potter's behalf for being called 'Pooper', “that he did indeed bravely best a dragon – on three different occasions! AND yes, he can fly. Actually, he is the best flyer you'll ever see on a broom. The youngest Seeker at Hogwarts in a century. Not that you would understand the significance, Weasel, with your poor flying skills.”

“What was that, Ferret?” Without warning the mood had changed and a red-faced redhead clenched his fists at an equally pumped-up Draco.

Momentarily, it looked like they would start hexing each other, but both of their attention was drawn to the shaking girl in their midst who was holding her stomach and trying really hard not to burst into laughter.

“Sorry, it's just – weasels and ferrets are actually distant relatives in the animal kingdom,” Granger giggled.

Both boys glared at her.

“And so are you: fourth cousins once removed! Molly told me.” She was positively squealing now, which was somehow infective and soon all three of them were out of breath from laughing. It felt nice.

What a complicated relationship they all had.

After hours and hours of research and worry, these outbursts of hilarity were needed to balance them all out.

“So, did Padraig really beat Voldemort,” (Draco shuddered, but it didn't reach his heart – for once he was almost happy.) “with that wand?” panted freckle-face.

Draco simply nodded.

“Why have you got it then? If it was his?” Granger questioningly put her palm out to touch Draco's wand and after a moment of hesitation he handed it to her.

“Because it's my wand. Or it used to be mine before Potter took it from me at the Manor (where he was with you as well). He seemingly utilised it from then on. I guess it was his wand during that time. Anyway, he gave it back to me after the war.”

Weasley ogled Draco and the wand with wonder. “This Poser really did all that? He sounds majorly cool, even with you describing him!”

“Except now, he's gone with the wind,” Granger found herself chuckling in delight until she realised that neither of the boys had joined into the laughter. “Gone with the wind! Like the movie?”

Draco cocked his head, a bit of irritation creeping into his voice. “What's a moo-vee?”

“No wait, before you answer that: time for a snack!” The ginger then proceeded with getting a little shrunken cake-box out of his pocket and enlarging it between them. “Ta-dah! I made it!” Potter's Weasel beamed proudly at Draco until uncertainty crept in. “What now? Do you think I can't bake a cake? I'll have you know that I studied cooking and stuff after our little camping trip to hell last year.” He shot Granger a tender look. “I'll never take it for granted again that someone else provides food for me,” he said, turning back to Draco. “So you can wipe your disgust off your face, Malfoy, my treacle tart is delicious, it is!”

Draco swallowed hard. “It's not that. Just, treacle tart is Potter's favourite.”

For a moment, they all looked at the baked gem then Granger cleared her throat. “I was thinking this before but could it be Ron and I remember Phyton in a non-memorial way? As in not with memories but with, I don't know, gut feeling? Maybe the crone's blinding breath really does blind, but in a more metaphorical sense? Like making people unable to see memories but it can't eradicate feelings?”

“Interesting idea, but why didn't she blind Ferret here then?” The Weasel was already stuffing his face. Draco's stomach growled. They had foregone dinner, so maybe just a tiny piece...

“It's because of the connection,” champed Granger, “the most powerful connection.” She shook her head at the forlorn gazes directed at her. “Oh come on, it's so easy. Malfoy, you said it yourself: Parsley had your wand. You both shared a wand, in a manner of speaking. Wand magic connecting you both is the most powerful connection.”

“That... makes sense,” said Draco slowly.

Weasley who was licking tart crumbs off his fingers looked up in confusion. “What does?”

“That Potter owning my wand for a while makes up the strong connection needed so that I didn't forget about him when everyone else did.”

“Forget about whom?” Granger's hand hovered over a new piece of tart.

Oh wonderful. That again. Draco took a deep breath – and let it out. Nope. Enough for today. “You know what? Nevermind. How about we do some more research?”

Weasley's face scrunched up in mock-pain. “Do we have to? It's Boxing Day, Malfoy! We have family plans!” Big blue puppy eyes looked at him, fluttering their lashes. Bleh, Draco felt sick. “Don't you?”

“Don't I what?” Draco snapped in a fit of pique. It was one thing to be unable to keep memories of Potter because of The Hunt's magic, another altogether though to skip out of helping to go frolicking when Potter was in distress somewhere.

“Don't you have plans with your family?” the Weasel obliviously clarified. “I mean you've been at this project the whole time. Don't you want to go home for Christmas? See your parents?”

“It's none of your business whether or not I visit my parents! And as for 'going home' there isn't any 'home' I could go to at the moment,” Draco hissed. “Although... I mean... I've been thinking...”

He had been thinking. About the Black lineage being extinct, about Kreacher the house-elf listening to Draco's orders, about the dreadful Manor and its close proximity to the gatehouse... and about Grimmauld Place' big library and the cosy bedroom next door.

“...I've been thinking of moving in here. Temporarily. Until we find P– The Hunt,” he nodded, more to bolster himself up than anything else. “So we could leave all the books and documents here and all that.”

He looked at the other two. Not that he needed their permission, but if they made a fuss he might not be able to live here after all.

To his surprise though, Granger positively beamed. “That is a great idea, Malfoy!” She turned to Weasley. “It would be just like old times!”

Her boyfriend looked way less enthusiastic, but agreed nevertheless. “Might not be all too bad, really. After all, it's a bit of a shame no one's using this place anymore and it is your great aunt's old house, so yeah? Why not? I say, go for it.”

Draco felt relief flooding his body, but he quickly dampened it down. “I didn't ask for your approval, Weasel, but I'll take it into account that you acquiesce,” he sniffed.

For a second, the redhead looked like he would bite back, but then he just shrugged. “Whatever, Ferret. Now–" he turned to his girlfriend, “shall we?”

“Yeah,” Granger got up and smoothed down her skirt. “You'll be okay with everything, Malfoy?”

Draco nodded. It felt still weird to talk so normally with these two. As if they hadn't been at each other's throats for years.

“Good, then,” she linked her hand with Weasley's, “tomorrow at noon?”

Another nod.

“Bye, Ferret.”

“Happy Boxing Day, Malfoy!”

Crack. And they were gone.

***

It only took Draco one trip to move everything he owned from the gatehouse to Grimmauld Place.

Even though he hadn't had any specific plans to move out yet, the thought had been on his mind for a while now. It was just difficult to find a different place to live – after all, it had to be a wizarding location (problem one: No one wants former Death Eaters as their neighbours) and Draco had to like it (problem two to one thousand: He was picky as hell).

Hence, basically falling in love with the old abandoned Black house came as much as a shock as it was welcome. As was Kreacher essentially acknowledging Draco as his master by following his orders and therefore making him someone permitted to live at Grimmauld Place.

He had been pleasantly surprised by the non-wizarding vibe of the house, in no sense how he had expected it: There were warm-coloured walls instead of dusty paintings, open doors flooding sunlight into the halls and not a single elf-head in sight (except for Kreacher's and that one was still attached to the body and very much alive, thank goodness). It didn't feel at all like a place his narky great aunt Walburga would have lived and he wondered briefly if maybe Granger and the Weasel did some redecorating during their stay here.

Draco opened the door to the second-floor bedroom diagonally across the library.

This room had been the thing to really draw him in. While he had felt the homey atmosphere of the inside of the building itself, it had been this very sleeping chamber that had pinged something in Draco's heart. Earlier he had only had a quick peek but still, he had felt an instant pull. If Draco had to describe it, he would say it was a bit like a faint fragrance, as if someone with a nice perfume had just left the room.

He waved his wand and used a Scourgify spell to clean all nooks and crannies. He then proceeded to unshrink his luggage and levitated his belongings to wherever he thought they fitted best.

Despite the mediocre outcome of today's research, he was in a good mood. With no one else around, now was the time to finally give in to an urge that had been lurking at the back of his mind for a few hours. So, while straightening a family portrait showing himself and his parents, he started humming and then quietly singing: “His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad, his hair is as dark as a blackboard. I wish he was mine, he's really divine, the hero who conquered the Dark Lord."

Smiling softly, Draco revelled in the memory of twelve-year-old Potter being all flustered. True, the song was ghastly, but what fun it had been to see Potter go red like a tomato. “I won't forget that,” Draco vowed to himself.

He fed his eagle owl, cooing to him, a few Owl Treats. Eagle (creative, right?) had always been a loyal companion for Draco. His company was soothing.

Now, almost done. All that was left to store away were a few robes and clothes. Draco opened the antique wardrobe and stopped short. In the otherwise empty closet hung a lonesome garment. The thing looked peculiar. Draco reached out his hand hesitantly to the shining, silvery cloak; it was strange to touch like water woven into material. Or as if one would hold a hand into a cloud. Especially the part where said hand disappeared from sight. Draco blinked and pulled back. All fingers accounted for.

He tried again, putting his whole arm under the fabric. It was gone without a trace.

“Merlin,” he breathed.

An Invisibility Cloak. What an amazing find. He would use it well.

But not tonight.

Draco suppressed a yawn and a head-shaking. Whatever next!

When he'd finished putting his stuff away, washing up and changing into his pyjamas, he dropped dead-tired onto the bed, face first.

Snuggling in, he Noxed the lights. Ah, he would sleep so well and tomorrow morning– ...and tomorrow morning...

Draco's eyes flew open. Bloody hell, what if he forgot about Potter again in the morning? What if, come the next day, he would no longer remember why there was a mountain of books in his new library? And what if the memories wouldn't come back this time? What if...

He cursed colourfully and Accioed his teapot (pot, Potter, check) from the windowsill to place it on the bedside table. See if a little piece of mind magic would defeat a Malfoy. Ha! He'd show those stupid memories.

And he would show Potter. Saint Potter with his green eyes, stupid glasses, black bird's nest, fondness of treacle tart, bravery, heroics....

The list went on and on before Draco's eyelids drooped and he finally fell asleep – thoughts of Potter filling his head.

***

“Cadair Idris!”^[1]

Draco flinched awake so violently that he actually fell out of bed.

“Wuzzat?” For a moment, he was disorientated by the strange environment, even threatened by the looming mass of bushy hair.

“Cadair Idris,” repeated Granger and pulled him unceremoniously onto his feet. “I took one of the volumes back to The Burrow for a bit of light reading and I found this!” She shoved an open book under Draco's sleepy nose. Its pages showed a moving, coloured picture of a round pond encircled by a ring of mountains, a breeze rustling the surface of the water. “'Cadair Idris is often cited as one of the hunting grounds of The Wild Hunt.' That's it! We have to go right now!”

Wild Hunt what? Go where? Rubbing sleep out of his eyes, Draco fuzzily realised that a redheaded someone was rummaging through his clothes.

“Hey, Weasel, what are you doing with my robes?” Draco croaked, voice dark from sleep.

“Wish I knew. Hermione got me up right before dawn and insisted we come see you and go– where again?” He turned to his girlfriend who was impatiently tapping her foot.

“Wales. The book mentions that the sightings of The Hunt are often limited to one night of the year. Say it's tonight, then we have to get there before the sun comes up. Now, will you hurry? We have to leave!” With that she ripped the outfit out of Weasley's hands and pushed it onto Draco. “Get dressed. We wait outside.”

Draco stood dumbfounded for a moment, staring at the closed door. Did that just really happen? Did Hermione Granger, Muggle-born extraordinaire, simply walk into his bedroom and order him around? He blinked. And what was that about a hu– The Wild Hunt! Potter! Dammit, he had forgotten about him again!

Draco was never dressed quicker.

***

Side by side they landed on the snow-covered shore of a midnight blue pond.

“Brr, it's freezing.” The Weasel huffed milky-white breaths and jumped from foot to foot. That the ginger was standing right beneath a hiking route sign reading Fox's Path was a hilarity that only half of Draco's brain could appreciate.

The other half was anxiously scanning the area.

“They're not here,” voiced Granger what they all saw. “No one's here.”

Draco' heart sank.

“Someone was here though. Just recently. Look at this.” Weasley had bent down casting a Lumos and pointed at the frozen ground. “Those are hoof prints, aren't they?”

“Yes and there are scorch marks from bonfires all over,” Granger chimed in, holding her wand higher to illuminate a wider circle. “And, are those marshmallows?”

“They were just here. Potter... was just here,” Draco whispered devastated.

Despair reared its ugly head and made an attempt for his heart, but Draco swallowed it down bravely. They found him once, they would find him again. Together.

With a breathtaking beauty, the sun came up behind the mountains, bathing the valley in wintry morning light. Everywhere it touched, the footprints and remnants of The Hunt disappeared like smoke before Draco's very eyes.

“Wow, that is spectacular.” The Weasel put his arm around Granger and she laid her head onto his shoulder.

“Yeah, a spectacular failure,” said Draco miserably and kicked a stone. “We missed him.”

Granger looked at him. “Missed whom?”

Well, fuck his life.

Draco didn't answer. Instead he turned towards the rising sun and watched it climb over the edge of the enchanted mountain top.

The Hunt had moved on and with it Potter.

Chapter Text

Hogwarts. Draco had been reluctant to come back here; but after the impromptu reorganisation of the green houses with Professor Sprout last week, there had been a spark of hope.

Suddenly, there was something to do with the endless hours of the endless days. Helping with patching up the castle seemed like a useful thing, like if he repaired the school he could somehow repair a piece of his messed up past.

Between the Manor's suffocating presence and his parents' tangible absence, it made sense to come back to the one place that had been Draco's second home for years.

Unfortunately others seemed to have had the same idea and so, when Draco had first arrived to help, he had been put off by the masses of people.

Fortunately (or was it, really?) not many wanted to work with a former Death Eater and so he found the peace and redemption of patching the castle a rather solitary task. Pretty much exactly what he wanted.

Some of the work couldn't be done by one person alone though, which had led to several awkward and/or uncomfortable reunions with old schoolmates. Oh well.

Today, Draco was late for patching. It was mid-July and he had slept somewhat poorly due to the heat creeping into his bedroom. The gatehouse was not all that well isolated. He had therefore overslept and was now coming in to 'work' only in the late hours of midday.

So, he was sweaty (a fact that he loathed) and somewhat moody when he arrived at the Entrance Hall where Madam Hooch was coordinating assignments by sending groups of Patchers this way and that, crossing off jobs on a big chalkboard that was hovering near the stairs.

“Good morning, Mr. Malfoy! Finally up, are we?” her sharp voice greeted him across the clamour.

Draco grumbled quietly. He was used to being addressed by name by the teachers by now; after all, he was one of the few that showed up almost daily. Nevertheless could he have done without sarcasm on this particular day.

The flight instructor scanned the task board for a one-man-job as Draco approached, and tilted her head. “No luck, we don't have any single-missions at the moment. How about a nice team play for once, hm?” She smiled like a hawk. Damn her.

“All right,” huffed Draco. “What's up?”

“Roof repairs, left tower side. Two-people-task. How about it?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“Attention, we need another hand here. Who's up for roofing?” Madam Hooch's magically enforced voice caused several interested heads turning their way. Yet as soon as they saw whom they would be partnered with, the free patch workers quickly resumed their loud chatter and all so they wouldn't have to work with Draco.

It stung only a tiny bit. He already knew those reactions.

“I can do it by myself, really,” he said.

Madam Hooch opened her mouth – likely to object – but was cut off before she even started.

“No need. I'll help.” A black-haired someone appeared on Draco's right side. “Hey, Malfoy.”

Just his luck. Bloody Potter. Bugger.

Draco had seen Potter around the castle, patching. But aside from a few tense nods here and there they hadn't had much contact. They were civil – but civil didn't mean friendly.

Working together would certainly be... interesting.

“Great! That's settled then. You lads go and get your brooms down at the Quidditch pitch. Next!”

“Brooms?” Draco paled.

“Yeah. What did you think? That we fly up to the roof on carrots? Come on, Malfoy!” Potter had turned heel and was already bouncing towards the doors.

After a long moment of hesitation, Draco followed.

Trotting along after Potter, Draco felt a vague pinch of nostalgia bubbling up inside him. Hadn't it always been fun to play Quidditch against the Saviour? Draco smirked to himself. Especially those times when Potter had got into trouble. Good old days.

They had reached the pitch and Potter started rummaging in the school supplies broom shack. Bending down he made for a pretty picture.

Draco screwed up his eyes. What on earth was he doing, thinking about Potter's arse? Maybe a heatstroke...?

“Not much choice, hm. Catch!”

Draco was abruptly pulled out of his musings by a broom flying his way.

He caught it with the instincts of a former Seeker – and dropped it instantly as if it had burnt him. Which it had, in a way.

Draco stared down onto the broom unfocussed, his breath suddenly too shallow to draw in enough air. Fucking get a grip, Draco!

Potter, oblivious idiot that he was, had meanwhile picked up the dropped object of offence and handed it to his patching partner. “Here.”

“I can't,” Draco croaked, backing away from the handle. “You'll have to do this on your own after all. I – I don't fly anymore.” He curled his hands into fists. He hadn't wanted it to sound so pathetic.

Potter's brows furrowed. “Why, you think you're too old to fly now just because you're out of school? Or what?”

Draco shook his head vehemently. He really didn't want to have this conversation. Ever. Particularly not with Potter.

Scarhead, however, didn't seem to get the memo since he was narrowing his eyes at Draco, scrutinising him in that familiar way. “What's wrong with you? You're as white as a...” His voice was trailing off, when his gaze dropped down to the two broomsticks in either of his hands and then back to Draco's face.

Potter's expression softened and Draco wanted nothing more than to run away. He would have, had his legs not decided to turn into jelly. This was embarrassing beyond compare.

“What're you looking at?” he spat as venomously as possible. “I don't want to work with you, so kindly fuck the hell off already!”

To his horror, instead of angrily storming off the way Draco had hoped for, Potter took a step closer, shifted both brooms into a one-hand grip and put the now-free hand carefully on Draco's upper arm.

“It was hard for me, too, to get back onto a broom, after the fire. But it's not going to get easier if you wait longer to try again. If anything, it gets harder.”

Draco hated it that Potter could see right through him. Almost more than the fact that he was right.

“Did Granger tell you that?” Draco choked, shrugging off the other's hand.

Potter smiled ruefully. “Yeah,” his lips turned a bit more playful, “and then she lectured me for half an hour: 'But you love flying!' Want to hear it?”

“No, thanks,” snorted Draco. He'd tried and failed to convince himself that he hadn't missed flying. What's more, he'd tried not to acknowledge (and this was harder to stomach than Draco had thought possible) that if he had to pick it up again, flying with Potter seemed to be the perfect option. Because Potter was safety. When did that happen? Fuck.

“Where are your cronies anyway?”

Potter shot him a sharp look. “Don't call them that! But since you're asking: Ron helps out at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and Hermione is taking care of her parents.” There was something left unsaid between the lines and that something was dangerous, too closely connected to Draco's flight angst, so better not to touch on it.

Draco cleared his throat to interrupt the taut silence. “Why would you even want to work with me?”

Potter raised an eyebrow. “Because that's what we do here, Malfoy: fixing things.”

As if this thing between them was so easy to be fixed. An endeavour wouldn't hurt, though.

“Let's try it then? And if I fall, you're there to catch me." It was supposed to be mocking but somehow came out serious.

“Of course,” answered Potter and the tone of his voice said he meant it.

***

The sun was beating down mercilessly and Draco felt like he had sweated out every last drop of liquid from his body. Yet still those stupid roof beams wouldn't stay in place. Instead they kept collapsing back into a heap of wood and dust every other minute or so.

After an unsteady start on the broom, Draco was back in his element again, even with only one hand on the handle while the other cast spells. He wondered why he'd ever considered giving up on flying.

He glanced over at Potter, who took this very moment to groan in frustration. “I need a break. Malfoy?”

“Sure.” Draco shrugged nonchalantly. Like he would tell Potter that this was the single most brilliant idea in the universe.

They landed on a small ledge bathed in glorious shade.

Potter used his sleeve to wipe his forehead, the barbarian.

“Gross! Potter, at least have a semblance of culture, will you? Use my handkerchief.” Draco passed the other boy a monogrammed piece of white brocade in exchange for the water bottle Potter had offered him.

Dutifully, Potter dabbed at his face and made a move to hand the soaked handkerchief back to Draco. “Ugh, no, keep it. As an early birthday gift.”

Potter simply nodded and slumped down, leaning his back to a wall with his eyes closed.

He looked a bit ill, thought Draco. He had certainly noticed Potter's dark circles, the ongoing boniness, their midnight run-ins in the Entrance Hall. Potter had said it himself, earlier: He was still struggling with war-related things, the same as Draco. 'And everyone else,' Draco added bitterly and hesitantly took a sip from the bottle. The cold water felt divine. Draco eyelids were heavy and fell shut.

"So, how's your family?"

Draco groaned inwardly. Did this oaf really have to make small talk now?

“None of your business,” Draco snapped a bit too forcefully. “I don't ask about your family.”

“No, you just assume.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Draco turned his head to look at his companion.

“Nothing,” sighed Potter.

“Well, obviously not nothing or you wouldn't react this way. Now spill. You started it.”

Potter faced him, looking thoughtful as if contemplating something. Finally he spoke: “You know? I did always wonder how it was possible for you to not figure it out even though you were certainly watching me closely for years.”

Draco turned bright red. He must have got a sunburn. “Excuse me?! If anyone was watching anyone, it was you stalking me! But that's beside the point – what are you referring to?”

Potter took a deep breath. “My family.” Not what Draco had expected.

“What about them?”

“They are awful.”

Draco blinked. “Come again?”

Potter laughed silently and there was something unidentifiable glinting in his eyes. “It's true. You probably thought they fulfil my every wish but the sad truth is, they treat me like rubbish. Just because I am a wizard, they never even gave me a proper birthday present – even yours was better. Thanks by the way.” He waved the handkerchief. “No, before I came here I didn't have fitting clothes or a room or friends. Oh, but this has nothing to do with them being Muggles, not really. They are just bigots – a bit like you. Ha, don't you think it's ironic? I believe my cousin Dudley and you could have been best mates when we were younger; at least you shared a hobby: Harry-bashing. Well, he's nicer now... a bit like you.”

The scorching summer day blazed through the almost unmoving air around them lazily. Sounds of Patchers all around the castle carried on a singular breeze. From up here, the damages on the grounds were much more defined. Still so much to do.

Draco stared. Stared at the seventeen-year-old across from him, stared at the teenager who had fought a war and defeated a mass-murderer, stared at the legend he had heard stories about since he could remember, stared at The Boy Who Lived, who had been famous before he could walk and talk, who Draco had been so very sure was living the best life at home... Draco stared at a lonely child, neglected by his elders and for the first time in all their shared history the true impact of Draco's own needling hit him with full force. He had enviously picked on a boy who he had thought to have everything and who in reality had had nothing at all.

“I'm sorry.” Maybe the quietness in his voice made it more real than anything.

Potter had turned away, looking over the lake, seemingly rattled by his own honesty. He cleared his throat. “Shall we give it another try?”

The double meaning wasn't lost on Draco. “I'd like that.”

Mounting their brooms, Draco couldn't help himself but voice a thought that had just occurred to him. “Is that why you're here so often? Because your family is shit?”

Potter snickered. “No. I don't live with them anymore. After all, I'm an adult in the wizarding world.”

Draco wondered briefly what Potter meant when he said 'in the wizarding world'. Did Muggles come of age at a different time? But he shoved that thought aside. Not important.

They hovered over the caved-in part of the roof once again.

“You stay at The Burrow then?”

Potter shot a well-aimed Reconstruction Spell at the beams and Draco a curious look. “No? I moved into Grimmauld Place.”

That nearly hit Draco off his broom. “Where now? Surely not the old Black house?”

“The very one. Sirius left it to me.”

Draco huffed hot air. “Wow, that's really something.”

Potter gave him a taxing glower. “If you are thinking about complaining that I inherited your precious pure-blood heritage, don't. I had enough of that from your great aunt's portrait and let me tell you this, she is now rotting in the cellar. Start with me and you can join her.”

That made Draco laugh, involuntarily. He quickly turned it into an innocuous cough, but not before catching Potter's smirk. “You can have it. I was merely surprised, is all.” He hesitated. “Actually, there were a lot of surprises today. Like when you were so painfully open just now.”

Swooping down low to examine the repaired roof part that seemed to finally stay whole, Potter had his back to Draco when he answered: “I just felt like I could. With you.”

So simple. And yet a thousand unsaid words.

Draco gulped. Being honest, saying out loud what he really felt... how long had it been? But could he? Could he be open with Potter?

Maybe.

Deep breath. "I... feel lonely. Even in a crowd."

Potter gave him a levelled look. "What about now?"

"...no." It was true. With Potter, Draco felt good, whole, in a way he hadn't for a really long time.

A smile brighter than the July sunshine turned Draco's way. “Great! And look – it's all done. So, how about some cooling down in the lake?”

“What makes you think I would ever want to go swimming with you?” Draco had already adjusted his broom though and followed Potter down.

Somehow, between spilling their truths and spilling their sweat they had come to an unspoken arrangement – to be confidants to one another.

Chapter Text

The Hunt lifted into the air, following its leader Berchthold and left Holle's Pond and the surrounding mountains behind, small like toys.

Up, up they soared, air rushed through Harry's hair and his robes whipped out behind him – and in a rush of fierce joy he realised he'd found something he could do without being taught – this was easy, this was wonderful. Flying was great! Even on a gluttonous horse, with a singed-smelling guy behind him, in the middle of a crazy crowd of dead people.

Harry laughed, carefree. This was the most fun he'd had since... well, this morning, but still.

“Enjoying your first flight, Seeker?” The redheaded Half was soaring through the air on Harry's right, while Wolfe in her lavender toga glided left of him. BraveHeart's Grapes was neighing just in front, letting Harry see that there was a picture of a camera on the back of the tiny boy's shirt.

“It's AMAZING,” yelled Harry happily over the noise of the wind and the frolicking hunting party, “and my name is Harry!”

Half snickered. “Wait till they bring the snow.”

“Or hail,” offered Wolfe.

“Or fog,” squeaked BraveHeart.

“And don't forget the storm wind, lightning and thunder,” Ember whisper-shouted into Harry's ear, a vapour of burnt smell hitting his nose.

“You're all awful!” But Harry couldn't suppress a gleeful giggle as he, amazed by the ease with which his owl Snowdrop kept up with his horse Lightning's speed, reached out to caress the former in mid-air. He was awarded with a delighted hoot.

After travelling over land for a while, they were soaring over an ocean now, the water a steel-blue grey, glittering in the winter sun.

It would have been cold, but Ember's body gave off an amount of heat that wasn't quite normal, yet served the purpose of warming Harry thoroughly.

He felt peaceful.

Sure, he could have tried to break out of the formation, steer his horse away from The Hunt, but the truth was, flying with his new friends had touched something inside him, something he wasn't ready to leave behind yet. Not if the alternative would be a life he didn't remember and that he might have wanted to run away from.

And there was something else: Curiosity nibbled at him. Where were they going? What was the purpose of The Hunt? Why him? He might never find out if he left now.

But he wanted to know. So he stayed in line. After all, he could always make a run for it later.

“Mm, mm, over the seas far~” Wolfe hummed under her breath.

“That is a nice song.”

She looked up, surprised, as if she hadn't been aware she had company – which was quite a feat considering that The Hunt brawled all around them. “Ah, oh, thank you, Seeker. I invented it.” Her gaze turned thoughtful. “I always sing it when we cross big waters.”

“Indeed, she does.” Half's eye-roll was almost audible. “Please, don't encourage her, Seeker!”

“It's Harry! How often do I have to tell you?” Harry's annoyance suddenly turned to mischief, when he struck on an idea. “Oh, but, you know what? How about I sing you a song instead? Goes like this:
Half does not like us to sing,
He never sings a single thing,
That's why Wolfe and Harry sing:
Half is not our king.”

BraveHeart stared open-mouthed at Harry. “Amazing! That was like so cool! Did you just make that up on the spot, Seeker?”

“Absolutely~” sing-songed Harry proudly. But in the back of his mind, he wondered if that was true. Somehow, the words, the melody, felt like something warm and vaguely familiar.

He didn't have much time to think about it though, because a snort at his back caused the others to chime in and soon, with lots of laughter from all sides, the verse was repeated and reworded several times, BraveHeart singing the loudest of them all.

With friends like these, being part of The Hunt didn't seem so bad. Leaving it could wait a while.

As Snowdrop looped around the gang, Harry followed her with his eyes, taking in the bizarre picture: riders of every shape and form on all sides. There were also many people on foot, seemingly running in the open air. The sight was quite something, especially with the various animals in the crowd.

Just then, a white dog, its red ears flapping, slid next to Lightning. Its fur looked fluffy, so Harry moved to touch it.

"I wouldn't pet this one, if I were you," said Ember casually.

Harry's hand shied away. "Why not?"

"It's one of Berchthold's private pack, a dog of hell," Half chipped in. “It's a hell of a dog, haha. Seriously though, when prey is sighted, Perchta – Holle for you – calls them up ahead.”

He pointed to the front of the procession where, at that very moment, a black greyhound with a fishtail, gliding next to Berchthold, opened her muzzle and – cried like a goose.

Even as a grotesque dog-thing, it was unmistakably Holle, the old crone, her aura radiating around her.

The cry was answered immediately by the dog next to the group, with a blood-curdling goose noise of its own.

Harry flinched so hard he would have fallen off Lightning's back had Ember not held onto him.

“Wh-what was that? Was – is that really Holle?” Harry stuttered.

“She's Dormarth today,” giggled Wolfe next to him.

“Of course she is,” replied Harry dryly. Why was he even wondering about anything anymore? Women changing their names all the time, women with wings, women that were dogs, dogs that honked like geese, sure.

“Look, look, Seeker! It's starting!” BraveHeart nodded excitedly at Holle – no, Dormarth – who was quickly surrounded by a pack of red-eared white dogs with goose voices.

As if the cry had been a sign, the weather changed with such sudden force that Harry had to cling to Lightning for dear life: The wind, just a breeze before, had now picked up, transforming into strong gusts. The forecasted lightning buzzed and thunder clapped around them, leaving an electric sort of taste in the air and Harry half-deaf. It started snowing and hailing in equal parts and a fog thick as pea soup materialised with breakneck speed over the water.

Harry was brave or at least he felt brave today, but flying in a storm was insane. However, when he looked around in panic for a way out of the centre of the tempest, he found that none of the others seemed even the tiniest bit alarmed. In fact, they were still just as relaxed as they had been moments before, when the sky had been cold but friendly.

Well, they were dead. Harry didn't feel like dying yet.

He attempted to steer Lightning out of the clouds, when a firm hand closed around his wrist, effectively stopping him.

“Don't.” Ember's voice was low. “It might not seem that way but we are completely safe inside Berchthold's storm – Half told me so. As long as we stay in the middle of it, nothing will harm us. We are The Wild Hunt.”

Harry slowly let out a breath.

Yes, they were The Wild Hunt. Harry was part of them now. Logically, he also realised that although the sky was almost black now, the smooth pace of the horses had not changed at all. They were galloping through the air as easily as before, protected by unseen forces.

Then some part of what had been said caught up with him. Hadn't Half explained that Holle only called the dogs when there was prey? They were over an ocean. What kind of prey could there be found here?

He peered ahead. Between the masses of bodies, beast and human alike, over the heads of the hellhound pack, in front of Berchthold's horse Sleipnir, Harry could make out a spot of gentle brightness.

A small cloud of soft light floated preceding The Hunt in a distance. Simply looking at it made Harry feel whole, as if all the little holes in his heart were patched. It was an ethereal glimmer that enveloped every part of him, all while being far away. It was immemorial yearning, aching, wanting. In its centre was a shimmering dragon shrouded in feelings of home and safety.

“That's The Beginning,” whispered Half, who had led his six-legged horse Gee close to Lightning's right flank.

Harry didn't answer. He was too absorbed in the image.

"You don't see her?" Wolfe asked from his left.

Harry blinked, ripped from his daydream. "Her?" The dragon didn't look particularly female.

"Oh~" Wolfe's eyes went round. "You see something else!"

“Do you really, Seeker, do you?” BraveHeart had Grapes flying upside down and hung his head next to Harry's, looking eager. “What do you see?”

All his companions' eyes were on Harry, making him squirm uncomfortably. “...a dragon.”

There was a round of 'Ohs' and 'Ahs'.

“Everyone sees in The Beginning what they desire most,” explained BraveHeart in an uncharacteristically expert voice. “Unless their want aligns itself with the purpose of The Hunt, which is to catch the prey. Like us. We all see the same.”

Aha. Harry's dearest wish was a dragon. Not a nice unicorn maybe or a way back home, nope, a fire-spewing monster. Awesomesauce.

“All right, what do you see then?” Harry asked irritably.

“Perchta,” said Half with a shrug.

“Perchta? You want to capture P– Now hold on, I thought she is that dog over there?” The Hunt's newest recruit was immensely confused.

“Oh, that's her all right. But that over there, The Beginning, is also her. Or at least a version of her. I never really understood it myself. But basically, it's something like Perchta's reincarnation or maybe a part of her?”

“And we hunt her because...?”

It was Ember that answered, voice in a duh-tone. “Because she is The Beginning.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I got that.”

“No, I don't think you did. She is... she is life. If we ever capture her, the world will start anew. A new beginning. The eternal circle,” Half's words carried effortlessly over the storm.

Wow, what craziness. Harry shook his head hard. He must have heard wrong. “But that means she is evil! Catching her will mean the end of everything. We have to stop this! Stop The Hunt from chasing her!”

To Harry's horror the others broke into a peal of laughter.

“You got it backwards, Seeker. She is The Beginning, not The End,” Wolfe cackled, wiping tears of amusement from her face.

“But, but when there's a beginning then something has to end before! And you said she will restart the world,” Harry tried to reason.

“Ah, does it really though? Maybe it's just everything staying the same while being completely different,” Half grinned. “Don't worry, Seeker. He hasn't caught her in forever. Not since the beginning of our world. And he most likely won't for another eternity.” He winked.

Harry gave up, throwing his hands with the reins up in defeat which caused Lightning to huff disapprovingly. These guys made absolutely no sense and this was giving him headaches. One thing, however, seemed to be essential here: that The Hunt had a higher purpose than he had thought at first and that catching The Beginning would be very, very bad (or good?) and very, very far in the future.

Harry let his thoughts float. His gaze flickered back to the beautiful dragon. There was just something about it that made Harry's heart squeeze.

“Mm, mm, over the seas far~” Wolfe had quietly started singing again.

***

“Oh, look! It's Sweden!” BraveHeart's passionate voice shook Harry from his daze, startling him awake.

They had been flying inside the storm for a while, hunting The Beginning, until the prey had disappeared and with it, the light and the game, leaving only open sea and a gentle breeze that had lulled Harry into slumber.

His gaze followed the outstretched arm of his new friend which pointed to a fast approaching land mass.

Harry shielded his eyes. “How can you tell?”

The masked boy shrugged. “I just know. The houses and the landscape. Also, there are Swedish flags. Check it out, they even have the Scanian flag over there!”

“The What-ian flag?” laughed Wolfe and leant forward on Binky's back to squint at the tiny pieces of clothes in the wind.

“Scanian. The flag of Scania, the south-most region of Sweden,” BraveHeart responded, suddenly a faraway look on his face. “The Swedish flag is blue with a yellow cross, the Scanian one is red with a yellow cross. Because the Danish flag is red with a white cross and Scania used to belong to Denmark for quite some time. Therefore, mixed Danish-Swedish flag equals Scanian flag.”

They all stared at the hyperactive boy sounding his age for once.

“Where did you learn that?” Half shook his head, disbelieving.

BraveHeart furrowed his eyebrows. “I don't know. I just... it's there, somehow. This region is glowing for me, a Somewhen Thing.”

That made sense in a way. If BraveHeart had been here when he had been alive, he could have subconsciously recalled that specific knowledge.

They were over land now, flying low above farms and fields. Snow was falling gently in their wake.

The sun started setting, even though it was only mid-afternoon.

Over a particularly wide plane, The Hunt dipped down and landed on the snowy ground.

“Finally, food break!” Half tumbled off Gee's back and stretched his limbs.

“Food?” Harry had also been stiffly attempting to climb off Lightning, only to be unasked aided by Ember. The cinder boy was still not easy for Harry to be around, even after sharing a ride for the better part of the day. He looked at him askew. “Thanks, Ember.”

The addressee simply shrugged.

“I wonder what they dished up for us this time.” Wolfe smoothed down her dress, the light fabric blowing in the breeze. Harry would never understand how the girl wasn't an icicle yet. If he had to guess the reason: Hunt magic.

“Food?” he asked again. “Dish? What are you all talking about?” Harry was puzzled, but his new friends (and really all of The Hunt) had started migrating towards a corner of the field and didn't grace him with an answer. So he followed, more out of curiosity than peer pressure.

Soon the whole hunting party had gathered in a loose circle around a big pile of hay, stacked up under a crude wooden cross jutting crookedly out of the ground. Harry noticed that the set-up was on an unreaped stripe of the field that still displayed traces of left-over crop under the thin layer of fresh snow.

“Mhm, not much to go on here,” said Wolfe with an unsatisfied look. “But at least they remembered the grass sacrifice for the horses. Binky, dig in!”

Neither Binky nor Lightning (or the other horses) needed much invitation though and soon the pile was visibly shrinking.

“What's a grass sacrifice?” asked Harry no one in particular, petting Snowdrop who was perching on his shoulder.

“People leave stuff for us so we don't harm them,” it was Ember who answered, an unpleasant look of hunger in his eyes that had nothing to do with the hay, “because sometimes we do.”

“Harm... I thought The Hunt is a funny group of dead beings continuously frolicking while chasing an unreachable goal?” Harry turned to Half, who felt somehow like the resident explainer of the gang.

“Oh, people all over the world know about The Hunt and most of them fear us. But that is only because they want to fear us, or better, they think they should fear us. So, basically, they see what they will themselves to see – when they have angst in their hearts they perceive demons and are afraid we bring catastrophes, droughts, wars or diseases. So they offer sacrifices to soothe our presumed rage. But when they have hope then they welcome us as an omen of good fortune. In those cases they recognise us as what we really are: happy party people,” he smirked. “Which reminds me: How do horses greet each other? Hay man!”

He doubled over laughing while several hunters chimed in.

Harry's smile however felt wavering. He couldn't decide whether The Hunt was good or bad. Did it rage and harm so violently that people offered things to thwart it? Was it really responsible for wars? Or did people only believe it so? Yet if The Hunt was essentially good then why was he here, why did it take him? Should he try to leave immediately? Now, with everyone distracted, would be the perfect opportunity.

He shook his head. No, there were too many things that could go wrong. They were in Sweden after all. It was better to wait with the flight plan for the time when Harry was safely back in Britain. Yet... he wasn't wholly convinced of leaving, his heart was torn on that matter...

Still in thought, out of the corner of his eye, he suddenly spotted something glowing: Somewhen Glow, the glow of things connected to his former life. Drawn to the source of light, he nosed forward until he had reached a side of the hay pile, where, hidden beneath a white tablecloth, he found an assortment of food, drink and everyday items. The snow had covered it up.

“Oh, bread! Look, they brought provisions after all!” cried a half-naked, somewhat demonic looking lady next to Harry and her words focussed the attention of the crowd on the findings. Excited masses shuffled to the victuals corner and Harry was pushed and prodded from all sides.

He quickly grabbed what he came for and made a narrow escape out of the heap, pressing his trove to his chest. It was only when he stood with a bit of distance to the boisterous horde that he took a closer look at what had called him: it was a small brown teddy bear, worn from years of cuddling.

Looking at the stuffed animal gave Harry pause. He had a Somewhen Thing that clearly belonged to a child. If there was a child waiting for him somewhere, shouldn't he put more effort into returning? Or maybe this was just something reminding him of his own childhood? Yes, that was more likely. He would go back to his life, but exploring The Hunt's freedom for a while first wouldn't hurt. Just until he was back in Britain.

Harry nodded to himself, ignoring that one part of him wanted the opposite of the other.

“Here, have some steel.” Ember had appeared at his shoulder and handed Harry a piece of shiny metal.

“Er, thanks?” he said bewildered.

“Those are for horseshoes,” munched Wolfe next to Ember. “Don't you want some food, Seeker?”

“Oh, oh, you can share mine! Do you want some?” BraveHeart had also found them and shoved a piece of half-frozen bread in Harry's face.

“Another sacrifice?” Harry asked, trying to bite off at least a bit of the baker's ware.

“Yeah,” champed Half, digging into a slice. “People in this region carry bread and steel with them during Yuletide when they go to church. In case they meet us. If they don't, they offer their things as a sacrifice in places like this one.”

“That's a bit crazy.” Harry had given up on the bread. It felt like he'd sooner break off a tooth than some of the crust.

“Ah, but it's not unusual. In other places we get beer, milk or ears of corn. In Austria they even write us an invitation:
'Luck in, bad luck out,
around the house The Wild Hunt wanders about'.
They love us over there!”

To Harry this was all weirdness, but everyone else seemed totally fine, so he watched them eat, his eyes gliding over to settle on the leaders of their cortège.

Berchthold was still on horseback, seemingly listening into the distance. Holle as Dormarth lay at his feet, one of her eyes glowing eerily at Harry through the break of dusk.

“Don't they eat?”

“Now that you mention it – I don't think I've ever seen either of them take food.” Half scrunched up his nose.

At that moment, a pandemonium of geese noises was heard, prompting the fugleman to give the sign for departure by playing a short tune on a harp that had been fastened on his saddle. The whole mob scrambled to get to their mounts.

“What's with the haste?” Harry was half-dragged, half-pushed towards Lightning.

“The dogs are honking!” hissed Wolfe as if that were all the explanation anyone would need. Well, not Harry.

He looked around. “I don't see The Beginning anywhere,” he managed to articulate while he was almost forcefully shoved up his horse by Half and Ember.

“It's not that! They started by themselves. Someone nearby is on their deathbed. We need to get there in time.” Half leapt onto Gee's back.

Dying, someone was dying. Of course this shouldn't come as such a surprise for Harry since he was riding with a ghost army, but he still felt shell-shocked. This mustn't be happening, not again, not here, not–

Darkness, all consuming, crashed over him, making it impossible to breath. People dying, his friends dying and it was his fault, his fault, his–

“SEEKER!”

Harry snapped abruptly out of the nightmarish thoughts that had clouded his mind. He blinked, snowflakes brushing his face in flight.

Right. He was riding with The Hunt, he was free. He took a deep breath.

“Are you okay?” Wolfe's voice was small and she looked concerned.

Harry nodded numbly.

“Death is part of life, you know,” Half offered carefully. “You can't help them now. But look at us: We are dead. That doesn't mean we can't still be happy. All right?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied automatically. He felt sick to his stomach.

“Over there,” said Ember quietly, shifting their attention to a farmhouse coming quickly closer. Nightfall had come by now and all windows of the thatched roofed building were glowing islands in the dark.

The Hunt stopped in the courtyard, all of them crowding together on smallest space.

An eerie hush blanketed the little grange, only interrupted by the screams: one faint wail from inside the house was echoed by a quiet honk of the hellhound pack, each subsequent one feebler than the preceding, until there was nothing but silence.

Then a baby cried once.

Harry heard his heart beat, slow and steady. His panic had subsided and left him with goosebumps and a vague feeling of awe. A life had ended in these seconds. Another one had been created. How breathtaking the world was, how cruel, how wonderful.

Snow, softly falling in the light of the warm glow from the windows, gave the scene a velvety feel, when a young woman in a striped nightgown stepped through the walls into their midst. Her flaxen hair fell open over her shoulders as she put carefully one bare foot in front of the other. Folded in her arms, a bundle of newborn was sleeping.

She stopped in front of Berchthold – a small figure before the giant on his mammoth horse. She seemed forlorn, so alone in the circle of silent watchers. Harry felt the urge to help her, but he held his tongue. Somehow this was not the time for him (or anyone) to interfere. This was Berchthold's time.

There were no words spoken, as the woman and the leader of The Wild Hunt looked at each other, eye to eye.

Finally she talked, her voice raspy from crying: “I heard your call. Thank you for the offer, but I won't go with you. My life was here and now, it is no more. I had all I ever wanted. I desire nothing you could give me.”

The spirit nodded solemnly.

She then turned around to look at her home one last time, before directing her gaze to the infant in her arms. A melancholic smile danced on her lips as she kissed her baby, then laid it down into the snow.

“Farewell, my heart, my love, my everything.”

She closed her eyes. Her face was calm. Then she shimmered, her outlines turning blurry, fading until there was nothing left but countless tiny specks of light swirling in the frosty winter air – and she was gone.

It was the saddest and most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen.

Wham!

A wooden window frame crashed loudly against the outer wall of the house.

“Don't do it! It's The Hunt, you mustn't look! There's nothing you can do for her anymore.” A frantic voice from inside was heard.

However, the young man who was now glaring out of the window with wild, pain-filled eyes was not having any of it. He stared at the assembled riders. “You! You give her back right this second. You bastards! You murderers! You thieves! Give my sister back right now, right now, you hear me?”

Everyone froze in their saddles. People were supposed to avoid The Hunt. Provoking it was most unwise and all the world knew it.

It was only then that Harry realised that he understood every word although the yeller (and the deceased as well) was clearly speaking Swedish. Curious, must be Hunt magic.

Berchthold slowly tilted his antlers and the grieving man's head began to swell rapidly. He made a surprised noise, causing the voice from inside to fearfully quarry: “What's happening?”

“What's happening is that these spectres think they're so great, but they're not. Ha, is that all you can do?” His head had swollen to a size so big he could have no longer pulled it back inside if he had wanted to.

The spectacle was grotesque and Harry would have laughed, but his emotions were still raw from the scene he had just witnessed and somewhere inside him, he felt sorry for the bereaved.

Wolfe sharply inhaled and Harry followed her gaze back to Berchthold, who slowly raised his hand and pointed at the man.

Harry blinked. The man? No, the dog. The red-eared white dog of hell, that now leant out of the window, paws on the sill.

“Wow, shit man. But he really had that coming,” cursed Half, shaking his head.

What had just happened? Had Berchthold really just magicked this yelling man into a dog for his pack?

The man-dog seemed just as confused. Now, though, he had spotted his sister's newborn on the ground and jumped into the courtyard.

A signal sounded.

“On it goes. Ready, Seeker?” BraveHeart pulled up next to him, looking somehow worn.

The new dog whined and a gurgling sound came from the sleeping baby.

“Wait, what about the child?”

“The infant was attached to its mother when she died. She unknowingly took the baby along when she crossed over. But she didn't take it further, into the next realm. Now this nursling is caught between worlds, sleeping forever. Not dead, but not really alive either, sort of in a coma. It's a real shame.” For once there was no mirth in Half's eyes.

“But we can't leave the baby!” Harry shrieked, disbelieving his ears.

Wolfe's eyes were red-rimmed and she snivelled. “The little one isn't dead like us and it isn't old enough to willingly come like you. It doesn't belong with The Hunt. We can't take it. It's fate. The baby will sleep until it dies. It will be peaceful.”

“Bullshit!” Harry exploded.

He was off Lightning's back before anyone else could interfere, and scooped up the child.

“Oh hurry, Seeker, hurry! The Hunt is leaving!” BraveHeart's horse pranced nervously on the spot. “If we miss the connection, we'll be doomed. Come on!”

The members of the gang were the only people left in the courtyard, with the majority of the procession already in flight.

Harry tried hastily to climb back up, but with the bundle in his arms, he couldn't quite manage. He made a decision. “Here, take the baby!” Harry shoved the infant at Ember and leapt onto Lightning. “Hold tight!” And off they went, the transformed dog stuck to their heels. Just in time to catch the last tails of The Hunt.

***

By the first light of morning, Harry was still furious. They'd been riding all through the night and now, at the break of dawn, he continued to give those so-called friends of his the silent treatment. How could they?! They would have just left the helpless baby to fend for itself!

Half had tried to explain (“It was the infant's time to go.”) and Harry had ignored him.

Wolfe had attempted to reason with him (“Those are the rules of nature.”), yet Harry had disregarded her.

Even BraveHeart had ventured (“Berchthold's word is final, so...”), but Harry hadn't wanted to hear any of it.

He was fuming.

He was also deeply shaken. The woman, the newborn and the man-turned-dog – it was all too much to take in. And hadn't he planned to leave The Hunt as soon as possible? How could he do that, now that he had taken on the task of looking after a bloody baby?

Frustrated, he ran a hand through his unruly hair shifting the flower crown Holle had given him. Then he sighed long and deep and glanced over his shoulder: There was Ember, the big, intimidating boy holding on securely to a sleeping pile of pink wrinkles and tiny toes. He caught his eye and smiled gently.

Much to Harry's astonishment, Ember had been the one to not say a word about the child. He had been keeping it since Harry had shoved it into his arms; without complaining.

Even more surprising however had been the lack of comment from Holle as she, shortly after departing from the farm, had pulled up next to Lightning and had eyed Harry's foundling with her glowing dog stare for a good long time, before turning her glare to Harry. He'd been sure she would scold him, bark, honk or anything. But she hadn't. She had just gone away, flying on ahead, back to the forefront of The Hunt and had left Harry with a certain feeling of unease.

“Seems like we're landing soon,” said Half desperately. He shot Harry a look. “Oh, come on, Seeker, you can't be mad at us forever.”

Harry stared stubbornly ahead.

“All right, how about we make it up to you, yeah?” Half tried again. “We'll all help you take care of the baby.”

“Damn straight you will,” grumbled Harry finally, “and you better give it your best shot.”

“The bestest!” squeaked BraveHeart and the gang smiled quietly, everyone to themselves. None of them liked arguing and all of them had felt bad for attempting to leave the kid. Harry throwing them a bone was a relief, a first step towards reconciliation.

They were really dipping low now and Harry could make out a low mountain range in the distance.

“Ah~ Home sweet home,” Wolfe purred and leant forward eagerly. Catching Harry's questioning look, she explained: “We've been here all summer. People in this region really believe in The Hunt. They even named this area 'Holle County'.”

“Actually though,” Half tossed in, “it's called Hoher Meißner. Watch out, we're going down now.”

The Hunt alighted at the banks of a small body of water that looked weirdly like– “Right, Holle's Pond^[1] is already back here,” Wolfe nodded.

“Back here?” Harry was struggling with what to make of this new strangeness while simultaneously trying to keep an eye on Ember descending from Lightning's back with the baby in one arm.

“Oh, can I tell him, can I?” BraveHeart excitement was almost palpable. “Perchta is so cool, she has her personal pond travel with her wherever she goes. Or more precisely, ahead of her. The pond always knows where we will end up staying for a longer while. Isn't that grand?” His eyes behind the mask shone bright with star-struckness. He had this puppy-side to him and Harry found himself mellowing a bit more.

“Here, I'll take the baby,” he said to Ember.

“It's all right, I can look after her.” The cinder boy didn't even lift his eyes. The tiny infant in his arms seemed just like a porcelain doll compared to her huge charcoaled protector.

Harry's brows furrowed. “How do you know it's a 'her'?”

“I just know.” With that Ember turned away, the man-turned-dog at his heels, leaving Harry unsure about what to do next.

All around him, hunters were getting off their horses and started gathering in small, noisy groups around quickly built camp fires that dotted the surrounding embankment. Soon the snow-dusted conifers were casting shadows in the frosty morning.

Harry's gaze glued to a singular larger than life-sized wooden statue of a young woman on the far side of the pond.

“Is that supposed to be Holle?” he asked Half who was busy taking the saddle off Gee.

“Ah, yeah, I guess so.”

"...why is she holding a pillow?"

"Oh, it's a nod to the old fairy tale of Mother Holle by the Brothers Grimm. Don't you know it?” Half critically eyed the effigy. “But really, anyone who's actually met Perchta would never recognise her in that story. Aside from maybe the letting-it-snow part... and the punishment for baddies, reward for goodies bit."

Harry wanted to ask, but was distracted by the extraordinary sight of Dormarth, the dog, turning into Holle, the hag, in a cloud of fog. The old crone had landed next to Berchthold and now stood up straight, dusting her apron. As Harry watched, he noticed something he hadn't before: Berchthold's horseman's boots were on fire! Holy shit!

Apparently no reason to panic though, as the leader of The Hunt, calmly chatted with Holle.

They were too far away to understand what they were talking about, but Harry spectated at the tiny winged woman holding out her hand to help the giant antlered man down from his eight-legged horse. The moment his hand touched hers, the fire went out. Curious.

“He's devoured by flames,” said Ember gravely, who'd appeared at Harry's shoulder. “A bit like me.”

“Yeah, but he got it worse,” Half added solemnly. “After all, if he ever dismounted without Perchta, he would turn to dust when his feet touched the ground. He's cursed in a way, you know.”

“I didn't. What kind of curse?”

Half shrugged. “I don't know the details. All I know is, he isn't entirely free.”

Harry thoughtfully observed as the giant went to lay down beneath a single oak tree at Holle's Pond's edge. The tree looked just as much out of place as the man.

“And what's that now?” Harry frowned, pointing at the object next to the sleeper: a big, bulky grey mass with seven dancing lights floating above it.

“What?” Wolfe had just finished lighting a fire and turned to see what Harry was referring to. “Oh, that is Spillalutsche's Stone.”

“Spi-what-what-what?”

“It's Perchta's house, Seeker!” BraveHeart elucidated happily, while feeding fistfuls of reed to the horses (Lightning was keenest, of course). “She lives under this stone, or in it really. It's so wicked! I wish I had a magical stone house.”

Harry smirked. “Why don't you ask her if she lets you move in with her?”

The excited boy flushed scarlet. “Ah, I, er, I mean – Seeker, come on!”

The whole group broke into good-natured laughter at the clear embarrassment of the floundering BraveHeart.

Half, as the mischief-maker he was, took this very moment to start a snowball fight and soon everyone except Ember (who had quickly ducked away, cradling the nursling) was panting and giggling and had snow in unmentionable places.

“It's a draw! Maybe we can make it a duel next time, at Midnight!” Harry laughed, but something tucked at the back of his mind at these words. Midnight duel, there was something. Something...

He couldn't catch the fleeting thought, so he slumped down next to the fire, still breathless. The others joined him, even Snowdrop decided to make an appearance after having fled the scene before, presumably in fear of being hit by a stray snowball. She hooted contentedly as Harry started petting her and nibbled his ear.

“She needs a name,” Wolfe announced.

Harry looked up, confused. “She has a name, her name is Snowdrop. I told you so.”

“Not your owl, silly, your baby,” she said, pointedly looking over at Ember and the sleeping child.

Harry blushed a bit. “She's not mine per se. But I get your point, she should have a name. Ember, what should we call her?”

The sooty babysitter glanced up. “Why... are you asking me?”

“Because, my good boy, Seeker here sees what we all see: You are attached to the kiddo and she (and her dog) to you. So you should dub her.” Half wiggled his eyebrows. “Coal, maybe? Blaze?”

Suddenly the centre of attention, Ember fidgeted uncomfortably. “I... I'm not good with these things. Words and stuff. Seeker, you picked her up, you do it.”

“Nuh-uh, if I do all your homework, how will you learn?” Harry wiggled his index finger and then paused, puzzled. Somehow this didn't sound like him all that much, rather as if he had borrowed someone else's words.

Ember squirmed and sputtered, getting buried under a flood of name suggestions. Finally, he muttered, so quietly, they almost missed it: “Dreamer.”

“Oh, that's a good name for her,” cooed Wolfe and leant over the baby. “As she will never wake...” Her face fell for a moment. “Well, what about this one then?” She tried to sound cheerful, but everyone heard her swallow. She was gesturing towards the hellhound, lying curled up in a ball at Ember's left knee, eyes on Dreamer.

“Can I name him?” BraveHeart asked energetically. “I have the perfect name: Scoffer!”

The gang dissolved into laughter, while the newly named man-dog Scoffer looked accusingly at them all in turn before putting his head back onto his paws with a huff.

That reminded Harry of something he had been meaning to ask for a while. He cleared his throat. “Since we're at naming and all, I've been wondering, Wolfe, why is your horse named Binky?”

The snickering girl sobered and turned to look at her black horse. “I'm not completely sure, actually. But I have a feeling that, yeah, it feels like in life I might have owned a pet named Binky? I can't really explain it, but when I first met her, the name popped into my head as if it had been waiting for her.” She shrugged helplessly.

“Aha, so, gut feeling,” summarised Harry, nodding. “And Gee?” He looked at Half.

“Because I'm Half.” For once, the jokester's face was serious. Harry was about to say that he had known that, when the other continued: “When I came to The Hunt, after I had died, I knew that part of me was still alive somewhere. I might look whole, but I just know that the me you see here is only half of who I am. The letter G is connected to my other half somehow, I'm sure. ...and I think, you have met them, this jumper of yours is linked to them, definitely. My heart tells me so.”

He poked the fire with the same forlorn expression he'd had when looking at Harry's jumper back at the first camp. It was almost physically painful to watch him.

Well, drastic times call for drastic measures. That Half was sad was Harry's fault and he had to fix it. He pulled the red wool over his head and hesitated. It wasn’t really what he wanted; doing this would give The Hunt more power over him. But Half had been a good friend when he had needed one.

Harry swallowed and steeled himself.

“Sorry for asking all these silly questions and thank you for taking me in. I don't want to see you sad, so – bye bye Harry, call me Seeker!” An elegant movement and the wonderful piece of clothing went into the fire, making little sparks dance in the wintry air.

“Why did you do that?” Wolfe screeched, trying unsuccessfully to salvage the garment from the flames. “The nice jumper! Seeker, you idiot!”

But Seeker saw that Half smiled, just a tiny bit, and he nodded at him. For friendship.

Wolfe calmed down, the conversation drifted to different topics and Seeker's mind wandered. Without his warm outer-layer, he felt a bit chilly and rubbed his arms. The movement made him realise that the dress shirt he'd been wearing underneath his jumper had a breast pocket.

There was something inside.

Carefully he pulled out a white rectangle: a handkerchief. How curious. He turned the soft material over in his hands and found that there was a single letter stitched into one of the corners, a capital D. What did that stand for?

He shrugged and tucked the handkerchief back in, not noticing that on his string-bracelet, a second knot had turned red. One knot closer to death.

***

The days had passed like the landscapes. Snow, fog, hail and the storm The Hunt was constantly surrounded by never dampened the mood of the cheerful ghost party.

Half and Seeker had had several snowball duels by now. Ember and Dreamer were inseparable, always guarded by grumpy Scoffer. Wolfe was singing. BraveHeart was excited. Things had got to a point where they had a normalcy feeling to them for Seeker. He'd even got used to the cold.

He still wanted to go back home, to his alive life – whatever that entailed. But with each passing day, he found he was a little less motivated to try. It was fun to be free like this, bare of all responsibilities, always surrounded by mirth and laughter. Yes, sure, he would leave the moment they got back to Britain, but until then, why not enjoy this?

“Seeker, guess what day it is today?” Half yelled over, wind tousling his red hair in flight. The setting sun in his back gave him a halo.

Seeker grinned. “A day for Half-assed jokes?”

“Har dee har. No. It's Epiphany, sixth of January: The Last Ride.”

“Sounds ominous. What's that?” Seeker felt a tickling of excitement.

“It's the last official hunt of the year,” Wolfe said lazily from her lying position on Binky's back, her legs dangling. Seeker wondered why she wasn't afraid to fall off. “See, The Wild Hunt is only in business for the Yuletide give or take, only in winter. For the other three seasons, we camp out somewhere and chill.”

“Like at the Hohen Meißner,” Seeker nodded.

“Yeah, so, this is the final time we're going to do this. For now. Let's enjoy it! Race you through this barn there?” Half was already dashing on with a head start.

Seeker (with Ember and Dreamer) and BraveHeart followed with gusto.

“Oi, Half, that's not fair! You cheater!” Wolfe scrambled into an upright position, taking pursue of the hollering boys tearing through the sky.

The barn Half had chosen as the goal, had clearly been built on top of an old road, the blurred outlines only just visible still.

Seeker knew by now that the doors had been left ajar on purpose, so that The Hunt could easily ride through if it wanted to, instead of destroying it while trying.

Flying nip and tuck with Half now, Seeker goaded Lightning to be faster. Just a bit more, just a bit– YES! Seeker rushed first through the doors inside the building, uttering a whoop of joy.

Adrenaline was flooding him. Wasn't flying just the best feeling in the world? Seeker reached out his hand to brush the ceiling.

In the last rays of the day, the dust inside the old barn sparkled like tiny stars as they rushed past stacks of hay and a dirt-stained farm tractor.

Without reducing the speed, they bolted out on the other side. Which was why it was too late to dodge for the person suddenly standing in the middle of the road outside the house.

“Draco!” a woman yelled from somewhere out of sight.

“Shit!” Seeker yanked Lightning around at the very last moment, his legs brushing the young man's upper arm as he shot past.

The world slowed down and focused until it was only a pair of wide, grey eyes. Eyes like a storm. For an endless second, Seeker was caught in them.

Then time picked up double-speed and Seeker was already leagues away when he turned his head around to look at the shrinking blond figure, miraculously unharmed and now sinking to the ground.

Seeker's heart hurt with the sudden want to go back to him, to the boy with the stormy eyes.

But The Hunt was moving on and so was Seeker.

Chapter Text

Harry woke with a scream, sitting up in his bed. His held his wand in his outstretched hand, shaking ever so slightly, until his brain caught up to the fact that he was safe in his own bedroom at Grimmauld Place and that the war was over.

He rubbed a hand over his eyes, reached for his glasses and glanced at his alarm clock. Shortly after five in the morning. Great, just great.

He flopped back onto his pillow with a groan.

“Does Master Harry wish some breakfast?” Kreacher had appeared at Harry's bedside, although no one had called for him.

Harry had the suspicion that the house-elf had somehow put a spell on the bed which told him whenever his master awoke from a bad dream in the middle of the night.

“A strong black tea maybe, if you don't mind.” Harry yawned. “I don't think I can sleep anymore. I'll go to Hogwarts, see if I can get some repairs done before Auror training later.”

Kreacher nodded and disappeared from the room, only to start puttering around in the kitchen, the sound travelling through the quiet house.

Harry rolled out of bed, shaking off the remnants of the nightmare. Bad dreams still haunted him almost every night, but he had got good at taking his mind off them.

Since the afternoons in this first week of August were of the blazing hot kind of midsummer, he usually enjoyed the cool mornings. Today though, he shivered as a balmy breeze came in from the window, drying the cold sweat on his forehead. He quickly pulled a Weasley-made cardigan out of his antique wardrobe, fingers brushing his father's Invisibility Cloak, then headed for the stairs.

He passed the newly furnished private library in the next room which Hermione had insisted he needed. He missed her terribly, her and Ron. But they deserved the Australia round-trip Hermione's parents had invited them on after they had got back their real memories. Harry was happy for them.

Trudging through his home, he smiled to himself. His home. After he had put so much effort into cleaning and rearranging it, Grimmauld Place really did feel like a home now.

“Your tea, Master Harry,” said Kreacher when Harry entered the kitchen and handed him the atrocious mug Luna had got him for his birthday last week: It showed a very blurry snapshot of a DA meeting back in fifth year, Harry was pretty sure Colin had taken.

It was Harry's favourite mug.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, sipping the scalding hot beverage while the little moving people in the photograph on the porcelain scrambled out of the way to not be under his lips. “How about you go back to bed? I won't be back before dinnertime, I think.”

“Very well.”

***

The castle lay silent, giving off a somewhat eerie, deserted vibe. Of course no one was here this early in the morning.

Harry tiptoed into the Entrance Hall, although he could have saved himself the trouble as there was barely anyone living in the school now due to the fact that the whole building continued to be heavily under construction. Still, better safe than sorry. Waking up a few portraits had earnt him quite the scolding last time.

The chalkboard listed pending tasks from the day before and Harry half-heartedly chose 'debris removal from the lake'. It didn’t matter what, he just needed something to get his mind off his nightmare.

With a sigh, he headed out to the grounds and down to the banks, yet his feet seemed to have decided on a different destination, away from the crumbled walls and towards the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

He could see the flickering lights of candles even from afar. Some were spelt to shine forever, like a perpetuum mobile – without outwards energy. Others were kindled daily or weekly by the visitors coming in droves to pay their respects.

Harry hadn't planned on coming here this morning, but maybe seeing the DA at breakfast had subconsciously led him to the memorial site: Fifty white wood crosses in five lines were arranged in a half-circle around a lone white marble tomb, the only real sepulchre with a body inside.

Harry walked down the aisle between the wooden monuments and stopped in front of the tomb. His thumb brushed the cold marble where once a crack had split it from head to foot.

“Hello, old man, how are you today?”

There was no answer of course and Harry turned away with a heavy heart, bracing himself for the onslaught of memories. Yes, here he had sat for Dumbledore's funeral, thinking that his death was the worst loss. And now? Now, fifty of his schoolmates were remembered here. Fifty lives he hadn't been able to save.

He swallowed. He hated to be here. Yet it somehow comforted him to visit the site. When he walked between the crosses, it was as if he could hear the echoes of their memories.

With a deep breath, hands curled into fists, he started his usual round. By now, he knew every name and everyone's story. He walked down the line, looking at each of the crosses in turn, nodding to them and greeting them like old friends.

He only stopped in front of a few of them.

He halted at Lavender's cross in the first line to conjure a bouquet of daffodils (a trick he had Hermione teach him before her travels). Ron had told him that those had been Lavender's favourite. He laid them down next to a picture that showed young Lavender with her pet rabbit Binky in third year.

Harry snivelled.

He paused for Colin in the second line, reaching out to trace the memento he had left here the other day: a postcard from Sweden in which Dennis had invited Harry to come and spend the holidays at the Creeveys' summer house in Scania.

Harry's tears fell freely.

He told Tonks and Lupin, side by side in the third line, about little Teddy's achievement of holding his head upright on his own and how Andromeda and him had had tea the other day.

Harry cried silently.

He stopped at Fred's cluttered cross in the fourth line and put a sample of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes' new product on top of a pile of trinkets, some heart-felt, some funny. Fred would have liked the bizarre assembly.

Harry sobbed, face in his hands.

He wept until his tears dried out and he felt hollow, filled with guilt and regret. He wanted to succumb, fall down and mourn them the way they deserved, but the truth was, he was exhausted. Days upon days coming here had made him numb for the pain he should feel.

Harry wiped his eyes. Time to get some patching done.

He turned to leave the memorial site, when a sudden movement in the fifth line made him jump, wand at ready.

“Morning, Potter,” spoke a shadowy figure in a familiar drawl.

“Malfoy! Jeez. You nearly gave me a heart attack!” Harry put down his wand. “You could have said something.”

“I did. I said: 'Morning, Potter',” Malfoy replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I meant before,” Harry huffed. Of bloody course it had to be Malfoy. So they got along all right now, but that didn't mean that Harry wanted him around when he was balancing on the edge of an emotional breakdown.

The other boy cast his eyes down. “I didn't see you before. Believe it or not, the world doesn't revolve around you, oh Saviour.”

“Don't call me that!” Harry snapped, pain and annoyance jabbing at his insides. “Not here...”

The expression on Malfoy's ghostly pale face, only illuminated by the candles for the dead, turned hard, his gaze flickering towards the crosses.

“Don't be so full of yourself. You're only one person–”

“I don't want to hear that!” Harry's anger flared up...

“–yet you did save me!” ...and died down. Harry blinked. Oh.

He gulped, suddenly a lump in his throat. “But I couldn't save everyone.”

“You're only one person,” Malfoy said again, but this time his voice was gentle. Then he coughed awkwardly and turned away, averting his eyes.

Harry fidgeted, looking this way and that. How to have a conversation like that with a former school bully in a sea of death and sadness when it was hard to formulate the words with his friends in the Weasleys' cosy living room?

He glanced Malfoy's way. Finding him here was a bit unexpected and Harry really didn't know what to make of it.

“So, whom did you come to visit?” asked Malfoy offhandedly.

Harry swallowed. “Everyone.” After a brief pause he added: “And you?”

There was no answer.

Finally, Harry stepped tentatively next to the blond boy and, following the latter's gaze, looked down to the cross in front; Crabbe's cross.

Ah, yes. That made sense.

“I was surprised they put him here. No, actually, I was surprised they included him in the Fallen Fifty, with what he did as his last deed,” Malfoy said quietly.

“No one knows about that but you, me, Ron and Hermione. And we didn't tell anyone.” A breeze ruffled Harry's hair and he shuddered involuntarily as the memory of the Fiendfyre resurfaced.

“That was... very decent of you.” Malfoy's voice had the slightest tremble.

Then he lifted his wand. “Aguamenti.” A small bird bath at the bottom of the monument refilled with water.

At Harry's raised eyebrow, Malfoy explained with a solemn voice: “I would light a candle but I think he's had enough of fire for an eternity. Plus, the birds keep him company... since no one else does.”

That was right. Crabbe's cross was the barest – no flowers, no pictures, no nothing. Except for the small bird bath.

“Do you miss him?” Harry heard himself ask.

Malfoy's eyes were unfocussed, staring into the distance. “...sometimes. Potter, I'm not a good person, no one knows that better than you. But he was cruel till the end and he wasn't all that smart and he had a horrid sense of humour... Still, I knew him since we were little kids. And I, I wasn't the good friend he should have had: If I had helped him instead of feeling superior, if I had made him understand that... that...” he choked, brushing vigorously a single tear from his cheek. “The point is: That Vincent lies here is my fault, not yours.”

It was the first time Harry had ever heard anyone call Crabbe by his first name. It was also the first time he'd ever heard Malfoy talk like this – and it somehow made him angry.

“That,” Harry pointed at the cross, “is definitely not your fault, Malfoy. He made his own decisions. No, don't interrupt me now. He was a dumb little shit and I know, he was your friend, but he was his own person and he died because of what he did, not you, not me. Now, this,” he pointed at the bird bath, “is your doing and it is lovely. End of story.”

Malfoy took a deep breath.

“Don't talk back to me! I said 'end of story'.”

The other boy snapped his mouth shut. “As you wish, Potter Perfect.”

Harry didn't know if you should feel insulted or relieved.

“But then you should listen to your own advice, Potter. They are not your fault either.” Malfoy made an arm gesture that encompassed the whole memorial site. "Don't put it on your conscience."

There was a moment of heavy silence hanging between them, then Harry, grasping for a change of topic, ventured: “So, do you always come visit this early?”

Malfoy shook his head. “I had a nightmare. Couldn't fall asleep afterwards.”

“Ah, yeah, er, me too,” Harry admitted, suppressing a yawn.

“Not too late to go back to bed, Potter. You need the beauty sleep.” Malfoy grinned the tiniest grin.

All right, if he wanted to play it this way. “Nah, I can't let you be the only one looking like shit.”

Malfoy made an undignified noise and pulled an exaggerated sulky face, which made Harry smile involuntarily.

“It's almost sunrise. Want to watch it together?”

“Why, Potter, first candle light, now sunrise – are you inviting me on a date?”

“Only if sitting by the lake qualifies as such.” It was supposed to be cheeky, but Harry felt himself flush. Date. Why did Malfoy have to phrase it like that? And why couldn't Harry ever back down?

Was it his imagination or had Malfoy also turned slightly pink?

“Don't get ahead of yourself.” The former Slytherin had already started marching down to the lakeside and Harry quickly followed.

They were sitting down side by side at the bank, next to the tomb, their silhouettes reflected in the dark waters.

The eastern sky was already very bright, when Harry at a sudden impulse slowly reached out to take Malfoy's cold hand in his. After a moment, Malfoy squeezed his fingers back, both of them finding comfort in the other's presence.

The sun came up. A new day started for two young men, sitting hand in hand at a lake.

Chapter Text

Draco stretched his arms over his head. He was exhausted. Another dead end.

For almost two weeks now, he and the Golden Couple had been chasing traces of and rumours about The Hunt – from one country to the next – with varying success: Sometimes they found people who claimed to have heard this (or seen that; but those were lying time-wasters as Draco knew all too well), other times they found hints that a big group could have camped in the area, but mostly, they returned home disappointed.

Today, the lead had been promising: A Muggle in Switzerland had told a local newspaper (that Granger had somehow unearthed, she really was a clever girl, Draco had to give her credit) that in most years, the Guenisheer a.k.a. The Wild Hunt would visit his barn due to the fact that it had been built on top of an old road. Such buildings were often in danger of being torn down by the riders.

The inhabitants of this region had learnt to keep both doors open though, for the ghost procession to travel through harmlessly. Or so the owner of the barn claimed, because all Draco and company had found were fields and hay and not a single sign of supernatural shenanigans, the hunting kind or otherwise.

He rubbed his eyes and suppressed a yawn.

While he had been sleeping better these last days in the old Black house than the whole past year, the worry about not finding Potter kept him jumping out of bed at night, looking for more clues in the mountains of books and papers that cluttered his new library.

Now, with mixed feelings, he watched Granger and the Weasel who were hand-in-hand eyeing farming equipment in the distance. It was helpful to have them around, especially the witch, but it was also still strained at times, particularly between the two wizards.

Ever since that morning when Granger had wished the boys 'a happy Three Kings' Day' (as it was the sixth of January), her redheaded wastrel of a boyfriend had had nothing better to do than to refer to the three of them as kings and mock Draco, calling him 'Your Majesty' in that particular tone that meant 'You Git'. Draco had stayed stoic (for Potter!), but inwardly it gnawed at him that he had to put up with something as childish as this. Well, Weasley was a child after all. Hmpf.

The sun was setting and spilt a flood of orange gold over the rolling hills. It was getting late.

With one last look at the lovey-dovey couple (ugh), Draco made for the barn once more. One final circumnavigation would do.

He stepped in front of the open doors, glancing inside, as he heard the clamour.

He had less than a second warning, when–

“Draco!” Granger yelled from afar.

“Shit!” A crowned rider on a flying palomino horse missed Draco by a breath, the rider's legs brushing Draco's upper arm as he shot past.

For an endless second, the impact of the sudden appearance froze Draco in place, rendering him unable to move, to talk, to blink. All he could do was stare at Harry green-eyes-black-hair-glasses bloody Potter, eye-to-eye. Eternal. Gone.

The fact that several (vaguely familiar?) ghost riders followed shortly in Potter's wake, scooting around Draco in most adventurous ways in order not to hit him, he only noticed hazily. Because of his own shock, the riders’ speed and the sudden onset of dense snow, Draco couldn’t make out any faces anyway.

And while he didn't care for the noise, the storm, the flurry or the horde riding ahead over the barn, somewhere deep down, a part of him registered that he was still here, not taken. Subconsciously, Draco had used his research knowledge and had kept standing still in the middle of the old road, where people were said to be safe from The Hunt.

But his own well-being was secondary at the moment, because...

Potter.

That was Potter, Potter, Potter...

Draco had to save him, call out to him.

He tried to turn around, but his legs gave way under him and he sank to the ground.

His brain malfunctioned.

He... had missed him.

“Oh my god, Malfoy, are you okay?” People knelt next to him. Someone shook Draco's shoulder.

He had missed him.

“Hermione, what's wrong with him?” a worried voice said, redoubling the shaking of the Draco.

He had MISSED him.

“I think he might be in shock. Look, his eyes are totally unfocussed.”

He had missed Potter.

“Yeah, makes sense. That sounded bloody scary when they came down. Honestly, even if he hadn't told us to cover our eyes, I don't think I would have looked, just in case, you know. Good thing he is such a cleverclogs – staying in the middle of the road might have saved him, don't you reckon? According to the lore and all. But, Draco?”

...missed Potter.

“I mean, yeah. I was worried, all right? It was in the spur of the moment. Anyway, I guess we better take him back home, maybe to St. Mungo's?”

...Potter.

“You don't gather they did something to him, do you? He looks really rattled. They didn't, like, take his soul or something?”

…Harry...

“I don't think so. It's The Wild Hunt not Dementors, Ron.”

Draco could have just grabbed him. He had been right there. If only Draco had grabbed him...

That was when Draco snapped and dissolved into hysterical sobs, leaving both his companions helplessly floundering around, trying to console him.

But nothing would console Draco today. He had found The Hunt. He had found Potter – and he had missed holding onto him!

Crying wouldn't help though. Crying only made people weak.

Draco already lost Potter today, he could not stand to lose face as well. Especially not in front of them.

He staggered to his feet, bit his lip to stop it from trembling, forced his features back under his Malfoy-mask and said with the haughtiest voice he could manage: “I'm all right, just a tiny scare. Not to worry. Now, I think, I can handle the rest of the research by myself.”

Protesting noises from the other two.

Draco sniffed. “Your assistance was helpful but is no longer necessary. Good day, Granger, Weasel.”

And before either of the addressed could do any more than gape at him, Draco had fled the place of his defeat.

***

“Howard, come here, good kitty-kitty!” Draco crooned, trying to coax the cat out from under the kitchen counter of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Warm March sun was sprinkling the tiles this Monday morning, it was going to be a nice spring day; if only that damn animal would come out already!

Draco sighed and grabbed for the cat treats. He really was spoiling the beast.

Black fur and green eyes, Draco had found Howard, a stray, dumpster-diving in one of Rome's many side-streets. He'd been a malnourished and flea-ridden little thing. Overall not a nice sight, but the resemblance to a certain Boy Who Got Himself Lost had won Draco over and he had taken him home and named him Harry (because he was hairy, no other reason). The only problem was that every morning, Draco had forgotten what he had dubbed his new pet, so that he had finally given in and chosen a congeneric name: Howard; nasty, common name.

Eagle, Draco's owl, had not been best pleased about the new family member. Howard, however, had instantly understood that it was way more fun to be served food than to catch it. Eventually this had led to the bird and the feline taking to a tentative friendship which had now evolved into a full-blown acceptance that often found the two of them snuggling on a windowsill during midday.

Draco had not planned on getting a cat. He had only been in Rome in the first place because he had been following a lead towards a source about the Caccia Morta, The Wild Hunt. But that hadn't brought anything truly new.

He was travelling a lot these days, chasing clues and rumours. One day looking for details on the Oskorei in Norway, the next day visiting Poland for hints on the mysterious Pusch-Grohla. He was Portkeying all over the world hunting The Hunt in libraries, museums and old people's tales.

The private library next to his bedroom was full to the brim with dozens of dictionaries in different languages, allowing Draco to use the full potential of his brain and learn bits and pieces of several new tongues simultaneously. He often sat in there, comparing this version and that, until late into the night, with Howard curled up in Draco's lap, purring. At least that darn cat was good for something.

Other than lying in Draco's bed, staring at the opposite wall, where Draco had hung a huge world map and colour-coded countries and information, strings going up and down the globe, connecting pins.

Despite it being months now, he had not given up yet. Yes, it was bothersome and yes, it went slowly, not much novel knowledge dribbling in from the few sources he could find. The important thing however was that there still were sources, there still was new information to unearth.

For the first time in years, he was hopeful when he rolled out of bed.

That was good. Especially after those devastating days in January, following the disastrous encounter with Potter and The Hunt. Draco had been so embarrassed and severely distraught about the fact that he had not been able to free the Chosen One during that occasion that Draco had rolled up in bed and done nothing for the next three days straight, ignoring food as well as numerous letters from the Golden Couple.

Seeing Potter back there, even for a second, had touched a chord inside Draco that had since not stopped singing him sweet-sad melodies. Like sirens, wonderful and deathly. Also, very confusing.

On the fourth day, Granger had stormed in unannounced and had emptied a bucket of ice water over his head, proceeding with giving him a piece of her mind that had his ears ringing. Weasley had been standing by, snickering silently until the girl had turned to scold him too, for being insensible. Which really had lifted Draco's mood more than the preceding telling-off.

Still, it had taken all of Draco to get out of bed that day and even more so not to crawl right back in once they had found out that the traditional appearance period of The Wild Hunt typically ended on January 6th. They would have to wait for the next Yuletide to come around to find the ghost riders again. Which meant, Potter would have to stay with The Hunt for a whole year.

Draco had felt like letting go that night.

But he hadn't, because Potter was the reason.

Instead Draco had lunged head-first into deeper research, making it his goal to find out all there could be possibly known about the lore, so to be prepared next Christmas and snatch Potter back (maybe even earlier than winter time?).

For that purpose, Draco was now having little rituals.

For one, he had placed an assortment of pots on his bedside table – teapots, cooking pots, flower pots – so that he would see them and remember Potter the moment he woke up. Furthermore, he had started to collect all kinds of pottery and put them all over the house, for the same purpose.

He had also found a dusty remembrance between the pages of an old school book Weasley had brought from the Manor's library. It was the joke badge from back in fourth year. However, where it once had said POTTER STINKS, there now was nothing and the words on the front never changed, redly glowing their Support CEDRIC DIGGORY – the REAL Hogwarts Champion!

Draco had shuddered at the unwelcome reminder of the dead schoolmate and had been about to throw the thing out as an idea had occurred to him. He then had taken to wearing the badge daily as a memento, another ritual.

These days, when he looked into the mirror and saw the flashy accessory, he willed himself to remember the bits he normally omitted: biting his nails during Potter's turn in the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, secretly betting on Potter during the second task and tearing up from relieved anxiety after the third task. It wasn't that Draco had wanted Diggory dead, but what if Potter had died instead...? Not that the idiot hadn't tried to get himself killed every year that he had been at Hogwarts... When Draco would finally get Potter back from The Hunt, Draco would forbid him to ever set foot onto the grounds again. No more Hogwarts for you, Mister!

Lastly, as far as 'rituals' went, Draco had picked up one that he only practised when he was alone, because it would be too embarrassing otherwise: Since Draco nowadays spent hours upon hours of reading, cross-referencing, translating, writing, researching and such, he had found himself squinting more and more often until he had had to admit that he needed reading spectacles.

He had stood a solid hour in front of the display, driving the shop assistant mental and in the end had picked a pair of old-fashioned round glasses. Potter-style. Not that he liked the unsightly things (or the boy usually wearing them, heaven forbid), but they served as a reminder. Like the badge, the pots, the pottery and Howard.

Yet wearing the glasses in front of other people would be too much. So he only put them on in the wee hours of the day, when the fire was burning low and his back hurt from sitting too long in the same position. They were his secret.

Once in research-mode, Draco was usually relentless. Good thing Kreacher had interpreted Draco's order (to go to Hogwarts to help with the repairs) loosely and popped in from the castle every now and then to make some food, do the dishes, the laundry and cleaning.

Only Sundays were free of The Hunt, since Draco used those to be a Hogwarts-Patcher again. He hadn't forgotten about the duty he thought he had towards the school. Also (and he would not say that out loud), being there made him feel closer to Potter somehow.

Not that there was a lack of Potter-related things in Draco's life. The Golden Couple sure was a reminder as loud as they came, especially the Weasel.

Since The Hunt would, in all probability, only appear again in December, Granger and Weasley had jumped off the daily-research-train. Instead the three of them had agreed on a weekly meeting on Wednesdays.

During one of these sessions, they had discussed why Potter hadn't left The Hunt back then and just went home with them.

“Once you join The Hunt, you become part of it. I don't think he had a choice," Granger had explained and it had made sense to Draco.

They also had found out that The Hunt's leader had, among his many names, also the alias of Siegfried, the famous dragon slayer. A fact that had caused the Weasel to speculate about Draco's chances to best the spectre. That could have easily turned into a fight if it hadn't been that very moment that Granger, by now deaf to the boys' constant bickering, had read out loud that “Siegfried is said to use an Invisibility Cloak”.

That had given Draco pause.

“A what now?”

“An Invisibility Cloak,” the witch had repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”

“...no reason.”

To this day, Draco didn't know why he hadn't shared his discovery then. Why he hadn't told them about the cloak he had found in the wardrobe of his bedroom when he had moved into Grimmauld Place. It had just felt like something private.

That particular Wednesday had passed and many more had followed. The strictly-business research meetings had slowly turned into research meetings and dinner, into research meetings, dinner and a game – or a moo-vee, once the Golden Couple had moved in together and had awkwardly invited Draco over.

The Weasel always thought it hilarious when Draco came to theirs and figuratively tripped over the manifold Muggle contraptions in their London flat (why on earth had all these Muggle vehicles a name and why were they all called Carl?). Even though the redhead was just as bad as Draco (he'd seen the ginger talk to the my-crow-wife), Granger fondly rolled her eyes at both of them an equal amount of times.

Draco smiled thinking about it and turned towards the counter once more: “Come here, Howard! Who is a good kitty?”

The cat didn't move. Stubborn like his namesake.

Instead, a feathered cannonball shot through the open kitchen window and fell into Draco's half-eaten breakfast.

“Pig?”

Weasley's tiny owl hooted delightedly and landed on Draco's shoulder, splashing porridge everywhere.

“Ugh! Seriously?”

Pig made owly eyes at him.

“Yeah, all right. Good job, you. Have at it then,” Draco sighed and fed the bird a piece of toast, which he happily munched while Draco unfurled the attached scroll with a frown.

It read 'Pop over ASAP' in Weasley's zigzag scrawl.

Today was Monday not Wednesday, so... had to be something important.

Draco waved his wand to clean himself up, grabbed onto the owl and Apparated right into the Golden Couple's kitchen.

***

“Er, Malfoy, we didn't mean immediately under all circumstances,” was the Weasel's greeting.

Draco narrowed his eyes at the redhead. “Excuse me?”

“Morning, Draco. Ron just meant, you would absolutely still have had time to, er, change before coming over,” said Granger (who now sometimes had the audacity to call Draco by his first name as if that were normal) and folded a Muggle newspaper. “Want some breakfast?”

Draco blinked and then slowly gazed down his body. A moment later, he really, really wished, he hadn't and blushed scarlet. He was still wearing his pyjamas. The childish Hogwarts ones no less.

He groaned and released the wriggly Pig from his grip. “Just a cup of tea, if you please. And then tell me why I rushed over here first thing this morning.”

He sat down at the table, Crookshanks jumping onto his lap with an often-practised routine from Wednesday dinners. Draco had somehow become a cat person. Huh.

“There was a call for you,” Granger informed him while pouring Draco a cuppa, “from that Swedish Muggle library you went to last month. It was on the answering machine when we came home yesterday.”

Hand outstretched to receive the china, Draco froze.

While digging deeper into the lore, they had found out that The Wild Hunt was by no means a purely magical occurrence. Rather was it known in the Muggle society just as well as in the wizarding world. Both otherwise so strictly opposite groups had very similar stories when it came to The Hunt, starting by the fact that all believed them to be superstition and nothing else. Of course there were still many different versions to sort through, but the core elements never really changed.

With that in mind, Draco had not only eaten humble pie in front of all the wizarding families he could imagine to have a private library, to grant him entrance (not many responded, but he was still on it) but also expanded his search into the unknown – the world of public Muggle libraries.

Later he had added to the list of information sources also Muggle museums and other such places.

Surprisingly, it had been Weasley who had come up with the idea to leave a standing message at the reception desks of those institutions, so that anyone also enquiring about details of The Wild Hunt should be asked to contact Draco.

Sometimes the redhead did have some good thoughts. Sometimes.

As Muggles could hardly send Draco an owl, Granger had agreed to hand out the Weasel and her foh-n number for the purpose.

Draco hadn't really believed in anything coming out of it and so far, it hadn't.

Until now.

"You should call them back," Granger interrupted his musings.

Draco looked slightly ill as his lips formed the words 'call back' and she rolled her eyes: "All right, I'll show you." She checked her watch. “We are one hour back, so it should be okay to call now, don't you think? That suits me fine, I still have some S.P.E.W. stuff to do later on.”

The boys exchanged exasperated looks over the kitchen table.

As Draco had learnt, the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare was a hobby Granger had taken up back in their school days. Now, due to her status as war heroine, the movement had evolved quite a bit, so that it kept Granger rather busy with charity events and promotions.

While Draco treated Kreacher nicer than he had ever treated any house-elf, because Draco tried to turn over a new leaf, he secretly thought that rights for house-elves were nonsense (they liked serving, so what?). But he had taken to following Weasley's lead whenever Granger started S.P.E.W.ing and silently nodded along to her ramblings. He had even joined, albeit rather reluctantly and only because he knew that Granger could get any job she wanted, yet she had chosen to be without one for the time being to assist her parents, do S.P.E.W. things and last but not least, help him look for Potter.

Draco forced himself to a polite smile. “Sounds lovely, Granger. Shall we then?”

“Yes.” Her face turned matter-of-fact as she got up and motioned Draco to follow her over to a little Muggle contraption on the sideboard. She seemingly broke off a piece (gasp!) and offered it to Draco.

“This is our phone. As I explained to you before, it works somewhat like a Floo call: You can talk to someone who is far away. Now, you hold it like so,” she demonstrated putting the thing next to her face and Draco cringed, because if it was like Floo the flames would certainly burn him this way, “one end towards your mouth, one towards your ear. And then you just talk.”

“Yeah, and don't shout.” Weasley grinned, leaning onto the counter next to them.

Draco sniffed haughtily and straightened his back. “Who would shout into a Floo call?”

Apparently the Weasel, as he turned redder than his hair. He was saved from answering however when Granger picked up a piece of note paper and started pushing little numbered buttons on the foh-n.

Draco felt a bit panicky. This would hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut, clutching the device tightly. Anything for Potter.

Ring. Ring.

Draco blinked. It didn't hurt at all. No fire. How strange.

The conversation with the female librarian was short: A local farmer had come by the other day and asked the same questions Draco had. The man had agreed to leave an address for Draco to reach him.

“Tack så mycket.”^[1] Draco handed the foh-n piece to Granger.

“You speak Swedish?” Weasley seemed reluctantly impressed which brought Draco unexpected glee. He still felt a bit jittery from the foh-n-experience.

“By now I speak European, Weasel. I'm a walking dictionary.” That was only a small exaggeration, really.

Granger huffed and rolled her eyes. Again. That was turning into a habit. “Well, what did they say?”

“They gave me an address where a Mr. Withane lives who also looks for information on The Hunt. It's a long shot. It might just be curiosity for him. But I need to try and find out if he knows something. I'll see that I can find a Portkey over there for tomorrow.”

The ginger scratched his face. “Make it a Portkey for three then. Round of Exploding Snap, Ferret?”

“You're on.”

***

Draco nervously smoothed down his coat. No matter how many times he wore the Muggle clothes Granger had picked out for him for his research outings, he felt colossally underdressed and uncomfortable. Especially those G'n'S that were so tight against his legs; he felt as though he were going naked with the way they snugly sat on his hips. Draco would have almost been tempted to believe these pants were Granger's misguided way of flirting (perish the thought!), had he not seen Weasley wearing a matching pair. They must have been on sale.

Nowadays, to Draco's growing concern, it seemed that he was finding more and more things he and the Weasel had in common. Great, just great.

“Are you ever going to knock?” Weasley shifted from one foot to the other. “It's bloody cold out here.”

The address of the farmer they had received from the library lady via foh-n the other day had turned out to be a thatched roofed farmhouse with a narrow courtyard surrounded by fields. There was a Carl vehicle parked next to the building. Definitely Muggle.

Draco took a deep breath and rapped on the door. Speaking with Muggles was still not easy for him. He often spluttered and grappled with everyday words (heir-plain was a hate-word of his but often came up). At least today he would have Granger as a help.

For a while, there was no sound from inside the house and Draco was just about to knock again, when faint footsteps could be heard and the door was unbarred.

A haggard-looking man in his mid-twenties opened the door. With his ruffled clothes, his unkempt dark hair and the purple bags under his eyes, he reminded Draco of Potter right after the war.

This man here must have been fighting a battle of his own, so Draco would have to be extra polite: “Hej, jag heter Draco Malfoy. Ah, talar du engelska?”^[2]

The man blinked: “Javisst.^[3] I mean, yes, I speak English. What do you want?”

“Mr. Withane? We're here to talk about The Wild Hunt with you.”

For a moment it seemed as if Mr. Withane was going to shut the door in their faces, but then he opened it wider and moved back a bit. “Come in.”

They followed him down a hallway into a big, slightly chaotic kitchen where he collapsed onto a chair, dropping his head into his hands, elbows on the dinner table.

The trio exchanged silent looks and then sat down as well.

Draco cleared his throat: “Ahem, so, we wanted to ask you what you know about The Wild Hunt.”

A long silence, then, muffled: “A lot and nothing at all. Nothing that will bring her back anyway.”

Draco pricked up his ears. “Bring whom back? Did they take someone from you?”

At that, the man finally looked up. “My daughter,” he said with a hoarse voice.

Following these words were immediate reactions: While Draco's thoughts flew towards excitement that he had finally found someone who might know something, Granger's hand flew to cover her mouth as Weasley flew out of his chair and hastily started ransacking the room for a kettle and cups.

“Just what are you doing?” asked Draco bewildered.

“Making tea. Mum always says it's best to talk about calamities over a cup of hot tea. Makes it all better. Now, how do you do this?” The redhead fiddled with the oh-when.

Granger, smiling gently, went to assist him, while the owner of the kitchen just stared at the couple as if they were insane. Then he sighed heavily and said, waving a hand: “Brew a cup of coffee for me then.” Which they did.

Coffee, really, those uncouth continentals.

When finally all four of them sat around the table again, steaming beverages in front of each, they picked up the conversation anew.

“So, what happened to your daughter? Did she get kidnapped and no one remembers her but you?” Draco asked, trying to look sympathetic, but inwardly bouncing with impatience.

“No...” the farmer said and furrowed his brows. “This isn't a joke somehow, is it? Because I swear, if you–”

“Not a joke!” Granger squeaked. “We just assumed. Since that is what happened to our friend... Parfay?” (“Potter.”) “And we thought it might be the same for you.”

“So your friend Pepper got kidnapped and that's why you're here.” The man nodded.

“Yes, we need to find him. Can you help us? Oh, but his name is Potter.”

“Is it important that he's a potter? Does it matter what your friend works as?”

Draco suppressed a groan and put on his game-face. Not that pun again. “He does not work as a potter, his name is Potter and no, his occupation is not important. Now, will you tell us your story or not?”

Weasley soundly opened a notebook that Granger had shoved at him. He positioned a weird-looking Muggle writing tool over the paper as it was his turn to take notes.

“All right, all right. I... it just hurts to talk about it. Look,” Mr. Withane reached for a framed picture on the windowsill, “this is... was my wife. She died giving birth to our daughter. When she left, it felt like she took a piece of my heart with her.” He swallowed and Draco found himself mirroring the movement. It was as if this stranger said Draco's most secret thoughts about Potter out loud. “I thought I would die, too. Of broken heart. Yet I knew I had to be strong for our baby girl. I tried so hard to be a good father. I still do, but I'm sure now, Odensjakten took her away.”

Granger looked up, dismayed. “My condolences.”

The Weasel solemnly nodded his as well. “That is tough. Sorry for upsetting you.”

The widower in turn titled his head in appreciation.

Draco felt sorry for him, he did, but he also needed answers. “Now, how do you spell O-od- that word you just said?”

“Odensjakten. O-D-E-N-S-J-A-K-T-E-N,” dictated Granger, but her eyes were on their host. “Does that come from Odin, the god of thunder and lightning?”

The man shrugged. “Could be.”

“I'm confused,” Draco cut in before Granger could dive into explaining all about this Odin. That could take hours. “Did your daughter get stolen or not? Because it sounded like she was still here with you, but now you say they've taken her?”

The farmer looked at Draco with an unreadable expression, then he pushed himself from the table. “Come. I'll show you.”

He led them upstairs into a small nursery with pastel-coloured walls and a sleeping baby in a cradle by the window.

“This is–”

“DON'T!” Weasley shouted suddenly, making them all jump. “If you say her name, we'll forget her!”

“Ronald!” Granger hissed, slapping her boyfriend onto the upper arm. “Don't yell like that in a sleeping baby's room! You'll wake her.”

“No, he won't,” said the father softly and let a hand drop down to his daughter's where she wrapped her tiny fingers around his. “Nothing can wake her. That's the thing. The Wild Hunt as you call them, they took her soul while she was sleeping and now she doesn't wake up. Ever.”

“That is... really sad. I'm sorry for your loss, truly. But if you don't mind me asking, how do you know it was The Hunt that snatched your daughter's soul?” Draco bit his lip. He was starting to worry that this was another dead end or worse completely unrelated to Potter's case at all.

“Because I heard them,” Mr. Withane frowned, “...because... the window was open somehow. I remember calling, that it was The Hunt, though I guess in all the commotion, I have forgotten whom I was talking to at that moment. Anyway, I heard them say: 'But we can't leave the baby.' That's why I know. They took her.”

The three teenagers that had lived through a war and had lost friends and family understood all too well, how the grieving father felt.

All of them were absorbed in their own thoughts, when their host walked them back to the front door.

He only stopped once, briefly, to indicate a completely empty chamber. “This room here as well... there is something about it. I can't recall why it's so bare. It feels like maybe Odensjakten has taken more than just my daughter. As if there is another piece – another person? – missing. There are things that make no sense, as though parts of my memory were incomplete...”

Draco nodded solemnly. “That's how it works. I promise you though, when I find Potter I'll do my best to get you your daughter back.” He was aware of the thoughtful looks he was receiving from both of his research companions.

“Thank you. I appreciate it. You lot coming here has given me hope when I had almost lost it all. I will hold on – and of course I'll let you know should I find out anything else.”

They shook hands on that promise and then said their goodbyes.

***

Before their Portkey back to London went, they had settled on a stripe of beach. The weather was grey like their moods, the water cold like that lead and the birds flying overhead fought the stiff breeze like the trio with their thoughts.

Draco skipped stones frustratedly, while Granger had sat down on a piece of grass with a Warming Charm.

“Well, that was a flop, wasn't it?” Weasley dropped down next to the witch.

“Why did you even come, Weasel?” Draco snapped, annoyed with the whole situation. It had all started out so well but in the end they only had one more person to look for and zero new information.

“I needed a day at the beach with my girlfriend,” the redhead tried to joke and put an arm around Granger who smiled tight-lipped. “Actually, yeah, maybe I did. I wanted a break, away from the shop. It's fun to work with George, but it's harder than you would think, to run a store.”

Draco skipped some more stones. “I'm surprised it's still standing, with you in charge.”

The ginger looked offended, but then he grinned. “Natural talent, Ferret. Apropos, we are thinking of opening another store and we are still searching for a manager – want to interview for the position? Of course then I would be your boss.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

Draco was startled by the sudden change in conversation and eyed Weasley warily. There had been an underlying tone of seriousness in the other boy's voice that made Draco believe that this was a genuine offer.

No one had given him any hope for employment, so he pondered about it for a moment. Working for the Weasel, that thought was grotesque. Yet, somewhat alluring... a real job, a real purpose, earning his own money, clean from any Death Eater relations...

But no, right now, his life did have a real purpose already: Finding Potter was more important than anything. Draco would look for work once he got Potter back, just a matter of time.

“A weasel and a ferret as co-workers? That wouldn't go well for a day. But thanks anyway. I appreciate it,” Draco ended awkwardly, not meeting the ginger's eyes.

Weasley nodded as if he knew exactly what Draco had not said and turned to Granger: “Hermione, are you okay? You're so quiet.”

“Just thinking.” She tugged at her lip. “By the way, you were wrong, Ron. We wouldn't have forgotten her.”

Both boys stared at her nonplussed.

“Great. Maybe some context, Granger?”

“What? Oh.” The girl looked up, jolted out of her reverie. “Right, sorry. I meant: Remember when we came into the nursery and Ron shouted for us not to say the baby's name so that we wouldn't forget about her?” Simultaneous nods. “Yeah, that wouldn't have happened.”

“But that's exactly how it is every time Malfoy starts talking about Popcorn.”

“Right, but it's not like that for her. She is not like Puffel. For a lack of better categories – she is not the same 'ghost type', so Hunt magic works differently on her.”

“Ghost type,” Draco repeated flatly and caught Weasley's eye, who shrugged.

“Yes, ghost types. You know, because not all ghosts are the same? Actually, not all we perceive as ghosts are ghosts at all, so the phrasing 'ghost type' might be misleading.” Her gaze wandered from one blank face to the next and she sighed exasperatedly. “Seriously? You both lived your whole life in a world filled with magic and never once wondered about the different types of apparitions and spirits? I mean, even in Hogwarts alone there are several distinct sorts of spectres. Honestly, sometimes I think you all just want to take the mickey out of me.”

She shook her head. “All right, listen up: For one, there are the normal ghosts – remnants of people who died and stayed behind, because they felt they still had something important to do here, maybe lingering regrets. They are incorporeal. That is the ghost type we met at school, in the form of the house ghosts for example.”

Draco nodded. A no-brainer so far.

“Contrary to that the ghosts riding with The Hunt are Hunt ghosts, let's call them that – they don't really have left-over business, but still feel an attachment to the living, mostly because they died at a young age. They are offered a position amongst the riders and once they have accepted it, The Hunt's own magic makes them corporeal so they can for example grab people, like Palfrey. They take on the purpose of The Hunt. Both of these types are usually just referred to as 'ghosts' by wizards and Muggles alike.”

Granger took a deep breath and went on with the lecture: “However, there are several apparitions people think are, or confuse with, ghosts. The most common are poltergeists which resemble normal ghosts, but are indeed not really even ghosts. Rather they are the embodiment of accrued anger and frustration materialised in a human-shaped form, with the sole function of releasing stress by haunting. They are incorporeal of sorts, but can move objects. That's why Peeves always destroys things, as he is all of Hogwarts' residents' annoyance put together.”

“Wait, wait, wait, hold on. Peeves is not a dead person?” Weasley's eyes were wide as saucers and Draco silently wondered how he himself never knew all that. These were indeed 'eye-openers'.

“Of course not. He never was alive – or human. Same goes for a number of 'afterimages' that could be deemed as ghost-like. First and foremost, moving portraits – portrait ghosts are not real ghosts but instead snapshot pieces of the painted people's personality. Roughly, they only know what the original live model knew within the short time span during the production of the painting. Portraits may seem like it, but they don't possess the full-fledged character of the portrayed. Therefore, we could walk into the Headmistress' office and talk to a piece of Professor Dumbledore or Professor Snape, but they are frozen in a thought bubble. They will never have new ideas, as they are not the real professors, only mere mimicries. Likewise are photographs or other moving pictures, but to an even weaker amount. Still with me?”

“Yes,” Draco, who had sat down next to her in the sand, nodded, “go on.” He needed her to fill his head with cluttering information quickly to shove away the painful thoughts that had unbidden emerged at the mention of their former headmasters.

“Don't encourage her!” Weasley hissed feebly, but he still paid rapt attention as Granger continued after a sharp side-glance at the ginger.

“As I was saying, there is more than one type of ghost-like afterimages... although my other examples are extremely rare and I must admit my musings about them are mostly based on hear-say. First there is the unlikely event that a Priori Incantatem (that creates sort of echoes of previous spells) meets an earlier-used Killing Curse and creates a somewhat solid copy of the murdered person, a Priori Incantatem ghost. These ghost-like shades are, from what I gather, similar to portraits in their boundaries of real characterisation. Their actions, once conjured, appear to go along with the dead person's last wish or thought and have the spectre act accordingly.”

She frowned. “I wonder where I heard about a case like this? I really don't remember... Maybe from Purple? Anyway, the other, even rarer case, is–” she suddenly paused to give Draco a scrutinising once-over and he felt very much on trial; for what now, he wouldn't know.

“Er, is something the matter?” he asked nervously. “I didn't say anything.”

Weasley looked a bit dazed, as if shaken from a dream. He turned to Granger, eyebrows drawn up in question.

“I guess we can tell you. After all, it's not like you could do anything with the knowledge: So another form of ghost-like afterimage is created by the Resurrection Stone. You might have heard about it, if you are familiar with 'The Tale of the Three Brothers'.”

Draco huffed. “Sure, that is a fairy tale. Three brothers get three gifts from Death: the Cloak of Invisibility that makes you invisible even to Death himself, the Resurrection Stone that can bring back dead people and the Elder Wand that is said to be an invincible wand. Two brothers waste their gifts and die, but one doesn't and bests Death. Correct? But no one in their right mind would believe that things like that truly exist. I mean, except for maybe weirdos like Lovegood who spout nonsense saying that owning all three of the gifts would make you master of Death. Complete cock-and-bull story, that is. As if objects like that could ever be real.”

'Although', a quiet voice in the back of Draco's mind whispered, 'there is a weirdly perfect Invisibility Cloak hanging in your wardrobe...'

“Oh, but they are,” Weasley said matter-of-factly. “We would have lost the war if they weren't. Now, I'm not sure exactly how they were related – must have had something to do with Princess – but they are definitely real. And Luna is not weirder than some people. At least she is not travelling the world looking for someone who doesn't exist, like you with your imaginary boyfriend.”

“Hilarious.” Draco snorted and rolled his eyes, a slight blush creeping up his neck. As if they could bait him with childish pranks like that. Princess Potter however had a fun ring to it and he would absolutely tell Potter about that once he was back – and absolutely not about the boyfriend bit. Weasley was so not funny.

“It's not a joke, Draco. Resurrection Stone ghosts are also echoes of sorts, but like memories or more precisely, the ghost form of the way the owner of the Stone wishes the memories to be. To put it differently: They appear as the wisher wants them to appear, albeit invisible to others. I wonder if they could even be called afterimages at all, since they are copies of ideal images rather than real people and–”

“Let's say they exist, which I highly doubt, and this is a legit ghost type. I still don't see the connection to the baby,” Draco cut in.

'And Potter', he silently added. He was getting impatient with the litany (even though it was really interesting). And he was going to have Potter spill all the details about this craziness with the Resurrection Stone; later.

“Right, I was getting there.”

“Get there faster,” the Weasel commented and earnt himself a light smack on the shoulder.

“So, all things I mentioned so far are related to ghost types of the mind or in other words, they are somewhat connected to character and personality. There is however also another sort of ghost-like apparitions that are linked to the soul.”

“The soul...” Draco shifted uneasy. “Aren't you putting your head above the parapet a bit with this one? I mean, do you even know if there is something like a soul?”

The girl cocked her head and contemplated that for a moment. “I believe there is or more like, I know there is. See, when Voldemort” (Draco shuddered.) “tried to make himself immortal, he divided his soul to create so-called Horcruxes. That is indeed what we and Pickle did when we were on the run – search and destroy said soul pieces to make V– him mortal again. In some of them though, we found something akin to a spectre that interacted with us. Horcrux ghosts are almost corporeal memories of the soul's owner which act according to the owner's wishes, but mostly independently.”

“Okay, all that is fascinating (and terrifying), but the baby–” Draco tried. He really didn't want to dwell on the idea of an immortal Dark Lord, good gracious. Draco would buy Potter a thank you gift after all this. A big one.

“So, souls exist and bodies without them that still move through magic can be sometimes mistaken for ghosts, but they really aren't. They are Inferi, only body but no soul.”

Draco took a deep breath to finally end this lecture, but didn't get a word in, since Granger ploughed on: “Now, the baby is the exact opposite: The girl is a soul ghost, for a lack of a better label. She left her alive body and now travels with The Hunt as mere soul. So, there you have it. Plymouth is a mind ghost type, a Hunt ghost and the infant is a soul ghost type, a soul ghost. Of course the Hunt's magic concerning them would be completely different.”

Granger gave the boys a smug look and leant back on her hands. “Any more questions?”

“No,” Weasley groaned and let himself fall back onto the sand. “Please, no more.”

“But why did her soul go with The Hunt?” Draco's head hurt from all the input, but he still lacked some of the puzzle pieces.

Weasley made a whiny noise of indignation.

“I don't know.” Granger's bushy hair drifted in the wind and she watched the waves come ashore. “Maybe she was whisked over when her mother died and then just went with them. We can't say for sure. I mean, why did they take Paisley? Must be a reason.” She looked at him. “We'll find out, I'm certain of it. And... maybe we need to look into the animal spirits, too?”

The Weasel choked out a sob and sat up so quickly, sand was flying everywhere. “Enough! Hermione seriously, I wanted a day off, remember?”

She waved her hand at him dismissively. “Okay, okay, but I guess it won't hurt to look into it, wouldn't you agree, Malfoy? We can start with what we already know about Thestrals and Grims and work from there. Yeah? Oh, what now?”

Draco and Weasley were wearing twin expressions on their faces: incomprehension.

Granger sighed heavily. “Boys, really, we had that in class! Or I mean, parts of it. But it makes sense: Thestrals are ghost horses which left The Hunt for one reason or another. That's why they are connected to death and misfortune in people's minds. Same goes for Grims; they are ghost dogs that defected from The Hunt. What do you gather?”

“I thought you don't believe in Grims!” squawked Weasley and waved about with his hands. “What about all that Trelawney-bashing in third year?”

“Ah, well, I changed my mind. Turns out she was right in the end, wasn't she? After all, your best friend Pillar was abducted by The Wild Hunt which Grims are connected to and she saw one in your cup, so I can admit that I misjudged her. I will send her a card when we get back.” She whipped her head around and stared at her boyfriend defiantly as if daring him to continue the argument. He however was cleverer than Draco would have given him credit and shut his mouth.

There was a long pause in which only the cries of the seafowl and the wind were heard.

Then Draco spoke: “Thanks for the lecture, Granger. I'll see to looking into that a bit more and also the animal spirits. Now, almost time to get back, isn't it?”

***

Draco had spent the rest of the day with the Golden Couple and was exhausted when he finally arrived home and fell into bed. What a day. So many thoughts filled his head. He wanted nothing but to sleep.

But first things first. He could not forget his nightly ritual he had taken to doing every time before falling asleep. He wiggled until he lay comfortably and then started the mantra: Harry Potter, green eyes, stupid glasses, black bird's nest, fondness of treacle tart...

***

It was an April afternoon and the weather had decided to be stormy, rainy and wholly unpleasant. Draco cumbersomely folded his umbrella and knocked. He was right on time.

“Ah, Draco love, come in quickly! It's frightful outside today.” Andromeda Tonks enveloped her only nephew in a tight hug and brushed the fringe from his forehead. “You're too thin. Are you eating properly?”

“Don't fuss, Aunt Andromeda. I'm fine.”

Draco bashfully extricated himself from her arms. It still felt so weird for him to even be allowed in her presence, let alone being welcomed with such warmth.

No stranger watching them from outside would ever believe that the two of them only met for the first time about three months back.

The week after the disastrous encounter with Potter and The Hunt, after Granger had kicked Draco out of his self-pity, he had gone back to Hogwarts for the first time since Potter's abduction. Draco had worked on patches all day and finally had made a last detour to visit the memorial site before going home.

It hadn't been a conscious effort to stop at his unknown cousin Nymphadora's cross but as he stood there and contemplated his life choices, his aunt had approached him.

It had been an awkward and tense conversation that had ended in an agreement to meet for tea.

One tea time had turned into several, had turned into a semi-regular thing and was by now an almost weekly occurrence.

His aunt was so different from other pure-bloods that Draco often found himself wondering how she had become like this in the household she had grown up in. But he hadn't dared ask her yet.

Nonetheless, it was under his gentle tutelage that his mother had quietly picked up where she had left off with her sister all those years ago and by now, the two of them were tentatively exchanging letters which seemed to bring both of them joy, as far as Draco could conclude.

“Teddy was just about to go for a nap, but I'm sure he'll be delighted to see you before. Why don't you pop in on him while I'll fetch us some tea and biscuits?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Draco hung his cloak on a clothes hook and headed for the nursery.

When he leant over the cradle, the little boy inside started to make happy baby noises and reached with his tiny arms for Draco.

Having a child in his life was new and he still was insecure about handling Teddy, but Draco had taken a great liking to the little one. However, watching the gurgling infant now, Draco felt a sting. The Swedish baby girl had been so still. Yes, he was determined to get her back as well. Potter and the baby – or no deal.

His fingers were snatched by Teddy and Draco lowered himself next to the cradle, reaching for a storybook. It was the one that Aunt Andromeda's late husband had bought for his grandson. That was of course before Muggle-born Uncle Ted had been murdered.

Having Aunt Andromeda tell Draco so much about her little family made him always sad and angry about the missed opportunity to get to know them. Now he never would.

But at least he could honour their legacy.

Draco opened the index and was just about to pick a fairy tale at random, when his eyes fell upon a title that sounded eerily familiar: 'Mother Holle'.^[4]

He frowned. Holle was surely one of the aliases of the crone from The Wild Hunt. Why was that name in a Muggle storybook?

He turned to the right page. Might as well read this story to Teddy.

“Once upon a time there were two step-sisters both named Mary. One kind and zealous, the other mean and lazy. One after the other, they met Mother Holle, a friendly elderly woman, in her magical realm. She asked them for help with some tasks, like fluffing up the bedding until feathers came out thus making it snow in the real world. In the end the good girl who had done all tasks, got rewarded by being bathed in gold and was henceforth called Gold Mary. But the bad girl who had slept all day, got punished by being doused in pitch and was henceforth called Pitch Mary. The end.”

Huh. The narrative held some similarities to the Hunt lore. A mysterious, powerful old woman named Holle who could make it snow. Also, reward and punishment. Draco made a mental note to look further into this particular story but also other Muggle fairy tales.

Muggle... Draco thoughtfully turned the page over. He wondered if Potter had ever heard that story. If maybe, secretly, as a child Harry had always hoped to go to Mother Holle's realm and be rewarded, while his stupid cousin would be punished. Draco smiled at the thought: Gold Harry and Pitch Harry.

Thunder rolled in the distance and the storm wind banged a branch against the window.

Draco shivered and continued to leaf through the book. "Oh look, Teddy! This cat here looks like Howard." He offered the picture for the baby to examine, but the little one had fallen asleep while Draco had been reading.

"I was wondering: Why did you call your cat Howard?" Andromeda had come in, bearing a tray with two cups of steaming tea and an overloaded plate with self-made biscuits.

Draco paused, blinked. "I... don't recall." He furrowed his brows. “Must have been a spur of the moment thing.”

He sipped his tea. It didn't seem important.

Chapter Text

Harry nervously looked himself over in the mirror for one last time. He had tried (and failed) to tame his hair and wore new dress robes.

Fancy parties had never really been his thing and after the war, large crowds always held the potential for over-zealous, well-meaning fans to approach him.

Fame was something Harry could do without perfectly and that was ironic since he basically had been born famous.

He snorted at the thought. Malfoy would have a field day with that interpretation.

Harry fiddled with his bangs.

Would Malfoy even come tonight? He didn't go for masses these days either.

On the other hand, it was the Hogwarts re-opening celebration and Malfoy had put in quite the work over the last few weeks, so maybe...

Harry shook his head, what did it even matter if Mr. Silver Spoon attended? Harry would barely have time to talk to him and next to Malfoy with his refined posture and his elegant features Harry would look even more like a country rube.

There were voices in the hallway and Harry made his way down to meet his friends.

“Hello, Handsome.” Ginny kissed him on the cheek. Her floor-length burgundy satin dress caressed her curves in all the right places.

She was a woman now and Harry often wondered if maybe soon she would expect him to do something about that. Yet while they had resumed their relationship after The Battle of Hogwarts, between grieving and dealing and picking up broken pieces, there hadn't been much space for romance in Harry's mind. So the few times they had seen each other alone since had been uneventfully filled with cuddling above all else.

His gaze went to the other female in the group. “Blimey, Harry, you look smart!” Hermione in her little black dress beamed at him and went in for a hug.

She and Ron had only come back from Australia a week ago and boy, had Harry missed them both. Letters could just not substitute for a live meeting. He was beyond glad they were back.

Harry then turned to greet his best friend – and burst into laughter. “What are you wearing?”

Ron sheepishly played with the hems of his maroon velvet dress robe. “I just thought, for old times' sake, you know?” He grinned at Harry lopsidedly.

Harry tried really hard to regain his composure, but by now, tears were running down his cheeks and he had trouble breathing, clutching his stomach.

Ron frowned. “It's not that funny.”

“Yes,” Harry panted, “it really, really is.”

After a moment, the others joined in the guffaw and when they finally had calmed down, their faces were red and happy.

“Shall we go?” Harry said, offering his arm for Ginny to grab.

“Wait!” Kreacher had suddenly appeared, ears flapping with excitement. He held out what looked like an old Muggle camera. “A picture for Master Harry to remember!”

Harry rolled his eyes fondly. Kreacher really resembled a doting parent at times (“Master Harry should eat! Master Harry should take a shower! Master Harry should go for a walk!”).

“Good evening, Kreacher,” Hermione smiled and the house-elf tentatively smiled back.

“The picture?” he repeated hopefully.

“Yes, all right, why not. Come here.” Ron herded them all together.

Kreacher's eyes sparkled. “Say 'toujours pur'!” There was an awkward pause. “Ah, that is... say 'cheese'!”

***

The castle was full to the brim with people when the four of them stepped into the Entrance Hall. Everyone had come to celebrate the grand re-opening of Hogwarts.

Harry felt a prick of pride as he took in the mended walls, the clean hallways and fixed windows. The Patchers had really done a splendid job here. Even though there were still minor repairs afoot, the school as whole had reattained its functionality so that starting tomorrow, first of September, students could once again walk the venerable halls of Hogwarts.

He noted a sense of nostalgia, even though he had been here a lot of times after the war. But tonight was different. It felt like the start of a new era.

“Mr. Potter! Look over here! Mr. Weasley! Ms. Granger, smile for the camera!”

Flash. Flash. Flash.

In the one second Harry had been reminiscing, photographers had surrounded their little group. Harry felt uncomfortably trapped. The press was still not his cup of tea, even though it was now way more moderate and printing way less lies about him.

“Oh, look: pink fluffy unicorns dancing on rainbows!” Pinkish glitter powder rained over the crowd of paparazzi and left them all dazed with far-off, elated expressions on their faces. “Quickly, this way!” George had appeared at their sides, pulling them away now.

“What did you do to them?” Hermione suspiciously eyed the out-of-order press people over her shoulder.

“Just a little test run for a new product: Unicorn Powder.” George grinned and winked at her. “Makes you see only happy, fluffy things for a minute or two.” It was nice to see him smile again. He had been moody lately, for understandable reasons.

“It's not made from real unicorns though, right?” Hermione asked sharply but George just laughed and led them into the Great Hall where the rest of the Weasley family had assembled at one of the long tables laden with food, Hogwarts-style.

“There you are. Oh, Harry, you look dapper, dear!” Mrs. Weasley got up to hug Harry bone-crushingly tight.

There were greetings all around as Harry looked at each in turn: Mr. Weasley (smiling warmly), Percy (looking stiff and all-important), Charlie (with a dragon-tooth-necklace), Bill (still scarred) and Fleur (still beautiful). And while they seemed like always, there was a thin layer of sadness enveloping the whole family – Fred's missing presence an unmentioned hole in their midst.

Throughout this celebration of life and laughter, the proverbial ghosts of the dead were sitting among them all.

But Harry was determined not to feel sad today. He wanted to feel proud, proud of what they had accomplished, proud of what Lupin and Tonks and the others had fought for. That basically the whole of Britain's wizarding community could be here tonight, free from suppression and fear, this was their achievement and Harry was immensely grateful to them.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome back to Hogwarts,” Headmistress McGonagall's magically reinforced voice echoed through the room. She was standing tall, as she'd always done; a tower of strength.

People went quiet to listen, but Harry's thoughts drifted off. There had been too many speeches lately, he was tired of them.

Instead his eyes roamed freely, finding so many familiar faces, old and new: people he had known from before and people he had met during patching.

These days, the repair works were a welcome distraction for Harry whenever it just felt too much and he already knew that he would come back to finish the last bits, even after school would have started again.

Harry scanned the crowd once more, this time with purpose. He was about to settle on 'non-attendance' when he finally caught a glimpse of blond in the furthermost corner of the Great Hall, right next to the portal. Malfoy was leaning in a niche, half-hidden by Hogwarts' banners. His arms were crossed over his immaculate dress robes and he was listening intently with a grim expression.

Suddenly, as if he could feel the gaze, Malfoy's eyes snapped to Harry's and they shared a long moment simply looking at each other. Then Malfoy slowly dipped his head in greeting and so did Harry. He felt inexplicably lighter knowing Malfoy had come after all.

With the end of the speech, dinner was declared open and the Great Hall exploded in voices, laughter and busyness, with people eating, drinking and going back and forth to talk with friends and exchange words with acquaintances.

Many of Harry's former classmates, friends and comrades-in-arms – coming in pairs or groups, with their families or alone – popped up to greet them.

Luna was there in the most bizarre and most Luna-esque dress that Harry had ever seen. Neville had come with his grandmother. Dean had come and Seamus and Parvati and Padma and all of them. There were Oliver Wood and Colin's little brother Dennis Creevey, Katie Bell, Justin Finch-Fletchley and the lot. Harry saw George flirting with Angelina Johnson. He saw Professor Slackhorn laughing jovially with Cho, Professor Grubbly-Plank clinking glasses with Hagrid. Dedalus Diggle dropped his hat at the excitement of meeting Harry again. Kingsley shook Harry's hand. Andromeda told a story about little Teddy's sleeping five hours straight the other night.

The Great Hall was buzzing like a bee hive and Harry was just starting to feel a bit more relaxed when they announced a big reveal and asked everyone to assemble in the Entrance Hall.

As the people had squeezed into every available corner, filling staircases and the entrances of hallways, the portal to the Great Hall was closed and now showed a veiled something hanging on either wing of the door.

Headmistress McGonagall, looking solemn and a bit regal, stepped in front of the portal and addressed the crowd: “It is with great appreciation and great sadness that we remember our dead today. Those brave hearts that defended Hogwarts and our freedom, to preserve it for us and future generations.” She waved her wand and the fabric disappeared, revealing two shiny copper plaques with names: Hogwarts' Fallen Fifty. “Sons and daughters of Hogwarts. You will never be forgotten.”

“You will never be forgotten.” The last sentence was echoed by many voices.

Harry whispered the words, inaudibly. He was choking on something or at least that was what it felt like. Yes, he had known tonight could be difficult but he hadn't expected to be gut-punched.

Or blindsided.

“Er, we, that is, the thankful wizarding community would also like to, er, unveil something if that is all right with you, Headmistress?” A plumb woman had stepped forward and shrank visibly under McGonagall's stern appraisal that said wordlessly that she was not 'all right' with the interruption.

The speaker ploughed on though: “We all know whom to thank for winning the war.” Her eyes gleamed with tears of emotion and sought Harry's group in the crowd. Uh oh. “Without further ado, we would like to honour the Saviour and show our gratitude. Thank you, Mr. Potter!”

And with that she rushed forward to kiss a floundering Harry on both cheeks, while in the Entrance Hall on the opposite side of the portal, a hilariously hideous portrait of a goofy-faced Harry was unveiled and people started 'ooh'ing and clapping.

From that moment on, as if on cue, the masses took the opportunity to circle Harry and express their heart-felt thanks, whether he wanted to hear them or not.

It took a full bag of George's Unicorn Powder to spring Harry from the clutches of well-disposed witches and wizards and get him down a hallway, into a quiet corner.

“That,” Harry panted, “was grotesque. I don't even look like that. What were they thinking?”

“Well, silver lining: Now the portrait can accept all their thanks in your stead.” Hermione grinned and Harry shot her a dirty look.

“It's not funny! What if people think that thing is allowed to speak for me and take its words at face value? God, the horror. I'll have to talk to Headmistress McGonagall about this later. And I'd like to see your reaction once they hang up your face so disastrously disfigured.”

“Oof, don't use the big words now, Harry, you'll make Ron dizzy,” Ginny teased and shoved at her brother.

Ron ignored her though, looking thoughtfully back towards the Entrance Hall. “Wasn't that bad, really, was it? I mean, they tried.” He shrugged.

“Well-meant is the opposite of well-done,” Harry grumbled darkly and fumbled with his rumpled dress robes.

Music was starting to drift through the hallway from the direction of the feast.

“Seems like they opened the dance floor. I'll see if Angelina wants to boogie!” George was quickly retreating towards the crowd. Over his shoulder he shouted back to them: “Are you coming?”

“Well, I could do with a bit of dancing... Milady?” Ron bowed exaggeratedly and held a hand out to Hermione who giggled and took it. They followed George, leaving Harry alone with Ginny.

There was a moment of stillness between them, neither moving nor talking. Then the ginger brushed a lock behind her ear and cleared her throat: “How about it? Would you like to...” she trailed off, probably because she had seen Harry's expression.

There was nothing he wanted less at the moment than to go back in there and make a fool of himself on the dance floor while everyone was watching him.

“I'm sorry, Ginny, I just...”

“It's okay,” she said quickly, but he could see that she was disappointed.

Harry felt guilty. He couldn't deal with this right now. “I need some fresh air.”

“Right. Let's then.”

“No.” He shook his head. “You go dance with the others.”

Her brows furrowed. “Are you sure, because we can totally–”

He gently squeezed her shoulder. “I'm sure. I just want to be alone for a moment.”

After giving him a long, searching look, she nodded. “All right. I'll see you later?”

“Yeah.”

Harry waited a minute before he followed the others. But instead of entering the Great Hall to which the portal was once again open, he walked out of the main gate onto the castle grounds. But not before peeping into the party room once and seeing Ron and Hermione do an enthusiastic performance of an Aboriginal dance that had everyone laughing and imitating them; Ginny in their midst.

Harry smiled. Australia had been good for healing his friends' wounds, at least a bit.

And while he did feel somewhat bad for leaving his date alone, he just needed a breather now.

That's why he ventured further and further away from the castle, since everywhere couples and small groups of people had gathered on the grass, enjoying the balmy summer night.

Harry looked back at the school, its silhouette glittering on the lake's surface. The lights from the high windows danced on the water like specks of gold.

He turned around. He knew now where he wanted to go.

***

As Harry entered the Quidditch pitch, a wave of warm familiarity enclosed him. He would always feel at home here.

“I'm really spared nothing, am I?” The bodiless voice, emitted from the shadows, out of the stands, made Harry jump in alarm. “Can't take your eyes off me, eh, Scarhead?” Malfoy's wand lit up, revealing his pale face seemingly floating mid-air. “Well, I am rather dazzling, so I guess that's understandable. But you really should have your stalker tendencies looked at someday.”

“Malfoy,” Harry huffed and realised that he was already relaxing. The world was weird these days when meeting Draco Malfoy alone in a dark place made Harry feel safe while being in a well-lit room surrounded by his friends flared his anxiety.

He pushed the thought away and started climbing the terrace. “What are you doing out here?”

There was a pause before the other boy answered. “I'm hiding. Parties... parties are not really great for me at the moment. But I wanted to come to honour Hogwarts and the Patchers.”

“Yeah, I hear you.” Harry dropped down next to Malfoy who in turn whispered “Nox”, plunging them back into the summer night's half-light.

Harry squinted down at the entrance he had just come through. “How did you know it was me? I can't see a thing from up here.”

Malfoy snorted. “Now, that's because you are blind as a bat. But – who else would run off to the Quidditch pitch in the middle of the celebrations, other than you? After that great reveal.” The blond boy chuckled. “Your expression was worth galleons.”

“...you saw that, huh?” Embarrassment twisted Harry's stomach into knots.

“Everyone saw that,” Malfoy laughed silently, his shoulders brushing Harry's as he shook. “Wait till it's in the Daily Prophet tomorrow.”

Harry groaned: “Don't remind me. Ugh, I hate being in the papers.”

Only lit by the stars and the dim glow from the distant castle, he could barely see Malfoy's profile when the latter spoke: “I never believed you before, you know? About hating being in the limelight. I always thought you were so annoying for acting humble while you secretly enjoyed it. Or maybe it was just that I wished I was the one to be the centre of attention.” He cocked his head slightly. “But you really mean it, don't you? You hate those things.”

“God, yes.” Harry let out a long breath. “You can have all the adulation of the press for all I care.”

“No, thanks. I was in the papers enough for a lifetime. With the trial and all...” Malfoy shifted uncomfortably and pulled his knees up, resting his arms on top of them.

He looked so vulnerable that Harry had the sudden impulse to wrap his arm around Malfoy's shoulder or take his hand again, like that one morning by the lake. Harry'd never allowed himself to think about it too much, but retrospectively, that had been odd. Holding hands with his old school bully as if it were nothing, as if it were perfectly normal.

Right, Harry shook his head. Why shouldn't it be normal? Touch for comfort, that was the most human thing in the world. And Malfoy and he were good now, so why was Harry getting nervous thinking about reaching out?

To hell with it.

He leant his shoulder ever so slightly into the other boy who stiffened for a second but then relaxed, letting it happen.

“The press sucks. Best just to ignore them,” Harry said in a low voice.

Malfoy hummed approval, but stayed still otherwise.

A breeze ruffled their hair. Music from the castle was quietly drifting through the air – someone must have opened the high windows in the Great Hall.

Harry felt peaceful in a way he hadn't for a long time. He let his head drop on Malfoy's shoulder.

There was something Harry needed to say though. “Your Aunt Andromeda is here tonight.”

Malfoy gave no response.

“I think she would really love to talk to you. She is... she has lost so much in the war: husband, daughter, son-in-law... You are the only immediate family she has left in Britain – aside from Teddy, but he's just a baby.” Harry turned his head a bit to look at Malfoy's cheek. “Had you even heard your cousin had a child?”

“I heard,” was all the reply Harry got and somehow this made him angry. He had thought that Malfoy was changing, trying to be more tolerant, but now his reluctance to meet Andromeda irked Harry tremendously.

He sat upright, anger flaring up. “She is nice, okay? Like, really nice! And you, what? Can't even bother to say hello, just because you–”

“I'm not ready!” Malfoy's tense voice was way too loud in the stadium. He had whipped around. “I can't, all right? Not yet. I...” His features softened. “Can you tell her though? To wait? Just a bit longer.”

Something very complicated happened on the blond boy's face and Harry wondered just how hard it must be for the other to put aside the ideological indoctrination of his upbringing.

The important thing though was that he was trying.

Harry's chagrin deflated as he sighed and nodded. “Yeah, I'll tell her.” Then he grinned. “But then you have to come visit her soon, otherwise she'll hunt you down. That woman has determination and once she set her sights on you, you better not run.” Malfoy lifted an eyebrow at him. “She pretty much forced me to renovate my house after she came by once. For my own good, of course.”

“Of course,” the other wizard answered dryly, his lips curling into a half-smile. “Well, now that you apparently have a newly redecorated house I'm sure you'll find a place to hang a portrait or two.” He blinked innocently. “Maybe ask that nice lady back in there for the contact information of the painter?”

“You're terrible,” Harry laughed. “That thing is icky.”

“Bad enough to drive you out here anyway.”

“Ha! I wish. No, that was because, er, I mean...” Harry suddenly felt a blush creeping up his face. Why would he confess something so embarrassing to Malfoy? Well, in for a penny. “I didn't really feel like dancing,” he finished lamely.

Malfoy barked a laugh, then flashed him a wolfish grin. "Oh, that's the way to get rid of you? Had I only known that before. The trouble I could have saved me! Well, in that case: May I have this dance?" With a flourishing movement he got to his feet and offered a hand to Harry.

It was a joke of course. Not even worth an answer, really. Yet Malfoy held out his hand for a moment too long and Harry thought 'Whatever' and took it.

There was only a split-second of hesitation, then Harry was pulled up, mischief glinting in Malfoy's eyes.

And then they were dancing in the starlight, tumbling over the benches, giggling and forgetting all sorrow. For a moment they were young and free and endless. Oh, the pure glory to be alive!

Chapter Text

“Adam. Brian. Chester. David. Eli,” the Weasel read from a paper.

“No, none of these.” Draco sighed unhappily and rubbed his temples.

They had been playing this game for a month now and yet the right name hadn't popped up so far. Or maybe it had and Draco had just not recognised it. Worst case scenario.

Ever since one random day in April, he couldn't recall Potter's given name anymore. At first he hadn't even noticed, as seldom as Draco used it, but when it hit him, he had tried everything to get the name back, to no avail so far.

More alarming yet were the other things, Draco was sure, he had forgotten somehow. There were loose threats in his thoughts and connections he couldn't make anymore. Bits and pieces of Potter disappeared every day from Draco's memory. The name was just the tip of the iceberg.

Draco would not lose them all though. He had promised himself that he wouldn't. His rituals would carry him through till Yuletide when he would finally get Potter and all the missing memories back.

Until then he would try to find the name again. The one thing he knew he had lost.

“Okay, that's all for now.” Weasley's voice had an edge to it that made Draco look up. The redhead had been fidgety all afternoon and kept glancing at the door.

“Alright, out with it. What is up with you today?” Draco set his teacup down on the kitchen table of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

“Mhm? Oh, nothing, just, Hermione's awfully late, don't you think?”

It was Wednesday and Draco's turn to provide dinner, so they had met for research recap in his library. Or so they had planned. Instead, Weasley had shown up by himself, with the vague excuse of Granger still having to run an errand. The two boys, left alone for the first time, had then awkwardly tried to work but had soon agreed it was time for a tea break... which had turned into a tea hour with wizard chess.

Granger really was late.

As if on cue, the front door was heard and a cheerful voice floated through the house. “Ron! Draco!”

“Down here!” Weasley shouted, jumping up so energetically that his chair fell backwards. “In the kitchen!”

Granger's bushy head appeared in the door frame. She was positively glowing.

Draco furrowed his brows at the excited beams the two others were exchanging.

“Did you get them?” the Weasel asked giddily, coming around the table to greet his girlfriend.

She smiled, brilliant as a summer day. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he echoed, with a dreamy look.

Something was going on and Draco was speedily getting annoyed with having no idea what.

Before he could complain though (shame really, he loved complaining) his two guests simultaneously turned towards him. Er...

“Draco,” Granger said with a solemn voice, “you're the first to get one. I just fetched them fresh from the printers.” She handed him an ivory envelope with painted leafy twirls on it.

Draco eyed it carefully for a moment, before opening it and unfolding the contained paper.

It read:

You are cordially invited to the wedding of
Ms. Hermione Jean Granger and Mr. Ronald Bilius Weasley
on the 15th of June at The Burrow.
RSVP.

Draco blinked. Then blinked again. Then stared at them. “You are nineteen!”

“Gee, thank you for the nice reaction, Ferret,” said the Weasel and sat down next to Draco, leaning into his personal space to have a peek at the card. “But they did turn out beautifully, didn't they?”

“...sure.” Draco looked helplessly at Granger, half awaiting to hear a 'Gotcha' from either of them, but the girl simply kept on radiating happiness.

“We know this might come across a bit ludicrous, but yesterday was May the second,” Granger elaborated. Draco's brows furrowed. Of course he knew what the date implied – anniversary of The Battle of Hogwarts. “We talked about how lucky we are to still be alive and how many times we nearly died already and we thought 'Why wait? Life is bloody short'. So, here we go. Oh, speaking of going, Ron, I think we should head to The Burrow, tell everyone. Draco, do you mind if we reschedule dinner?”

“No problem.” Draco startled. “Wait, you didn't even tell your parents yet?” His eyes went big and warmth bloomed in his chest.

“Nope. You're the first to know, mate.” Weasley slapped Draco playfully on the shoulder. Mate. Huh, that was new. “You're coming, right?”

“I mean... have you really thought that through? An ex-Death Eater at your wedding, are you sure?” Draco didn't try to get out of it. In fact he was rather touched and excited, already planning wedding gifts in the back of his mind. But he was also realistic and he didn't want to ruin their day.

“A friend at our wedding. We're sure. That's a yes then?” Granger stared him down.

Mate. Friend. Today was a day of firsts.

“Besides,” the redhead chimed in, “maybe for the wedding we can find you someone as well. You should get out there, start dating.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“I am dating!” Draco bristled.

“Yeah~?” the Weasel said, elongating the word to several syllables.

Granger arched an eyebrow. “Leave him alone, Ron. He's still pining for Peril.”

“It's Potter!”

“My point exactly.”

Draco blushed and diverted. “Well, I'd be delighted to attend.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you for the invitation... and congratulations.”

“Wonderful. That's settled then.” The witch clapped her hands. “Can we use your Floo?”

***

It was only when the newly engaged duo had left Draco's kitchen that he started to wonder. Why exactly had he become involved with the Golden Couple?

He poured himself another cup of tea while Howard jumped onto Draco's lap, demanding a petting session.

Why was it again that those two were helping with the Hunt research? Sure, they were goody-goodies, but to this extent? It was vital that they were assisting him, their reputation, input and comradeship kept him going. But why, why had they volunteered for this?

He shook his head. Another missing piece.

Before he could dive deeper into his musings though, there was dinner to be had and a cat to please.

The rest of the evening Draco spent between research and planning wedding presents.

He was in a good mood, humming the Bridal Chorus from Wagner's opera Lohengrin^[2] while brushing his teeth and then snuggled into bed. Right, the mantra: Potter, green eyes, stupid glasses, black bird's nest, fondness of treacle tart.

***

Two weeks later, Draco scrapped up all his courage and ventured into enemy territory: He needed new dress robes for the wedding (now the hot topic) and was therefore forced to visit Diagon Alley, a place that was still a minefield for him as an ex-Death Eater. There had been uncomfortable encounters before.

Today though, it seemed quiet.

Draco went in the late morning when few people were going about their businesses.

He entered Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions and was greeted by the cheerful owner, a squat witch dressed in mauve.

While she put him up on a footstool to be fitted, she chatted endlessly about colours, fabric swatches and true love.

Draco nodded politely, just happy she'd treat him nicely even after the last time he'd been here, throwing a fit with his mother, back in sixth year.

Potter had been there that day, alongside Granger and Weasley. Draco frowned. Why had they been together? Must have been a coincidence...

Madam Malkin pinned the hems and babbled.

Potter had also been present the first time Draco had got a fitting here, right before his first year in Hogwarts had started. Oh, he'd been so excited back then (and so pompous, haha).

Draco smiled. Even though he had lost some memory pieces of Potter, this first meeting was still intact and now it replayed before Draco's mind's eye.

Potter had been so bland: a poorly dressed, scrawny boy with unkempt, windswept hair who could barely get out a whole sentence. He had been a no-one to Draco and yet even so, Potter's green eyes had captured Draco's interest and without knowing who the other boy was, Draco had decided to keep tabs on him.

Of course then it hadn't been 'Potter' as they hadn't exchanged names that day. Rather had the scar caught Draco's eye and he had proceeded in calling the interesting stranger 'Scarhead' in his mind – and he kept on doing so to this day, under certain circumstances: It was one of his biggest secrets, but during the awful days when the Dark Lord lived in the Manor and Draco's thoughts were constantly in danger of invasion, he had turned to thinking about Potter as 'Scarhead' to muddy his sentiments.

Also, in more normal times, Draco would think 'Scarhead' whenever he silently agreed with the idiotic things Potter and his friends were up to; especially when Draco outwardly decried them.

That was why Draco actually didn't use the nickname often to call Potter to his face – in Draco's own warped interpretation, 'Scarhead' was an endearment of sorts and he didn't want anyone to notice. A secret he would take to the grave.

“All done, dear.” Madam Malkin smiled and waved her wand to disappear left-over fabric from the floor.

Right, dress robe fitting, yeah.

Draco shook his head. Potter was everywhere these days. But boy, had he been a clueless little wimp that first day they had met. Draco grinned. Good old times.

***

“Draco Malfoy!”

Draco flinched back violently. Not good. Why did he have to run into her in the Leaky Cauldron of all places?

Pansy Parkinson, wearing a pink neckerchief and a stormy expression on her pug face, came at Draco at top speed and slapped him hard. Her eyes emitted sparks as she drew up to her full height: “You deserved that.”

As much as he wished it wasn't true, she was right: Draco had been ignoring Pansy's letters far too long. He'd even put up a complicated hex to destroy any Howlers coming his way before they started howling. Not a nice thing to do; after all, there was still unsolved business between them.

“Do you have any idea what I had to do to get a hold of you? I had to pay Tom,” she pointed at the barman, “to inform me the next time you came in – and it took five bloody months. Five months, Draco!”

Right, the Fidelius Charm on his new residence made it impossible to visit him casually.

“I'm sorry. I've been busy,” Draco said quietly, rubbing his cheek.

The girl sniffed. “Well, you can be sorry later. But now you have to come with me. It's Greg.” With that she grabbed his arm and Disapparated them both with a plop.

***

When they landed at Goyle Grounds, Draco felt a pinch. How many times had he been over to play? Yet, he hadn't set foot here for an eternity now. It was surreal.

Pansy was already marching up the path to the front door, so he had to jog to catch up with her. “What's with Gregory?”

She shot him a dark look. “You would know had you bothered to read any of our letters. The others are pissed at you, too. Just so you're aware. But that's not the important thing right now. Let's hurry.”

The door opened before they reached it and revealed to Draco's surprise one square-built, angry-faced Millicent Bulstrode, wand at the ready.

“You are such an ass, Draco!” she greeted him and made a threatening step in his direction. “I should just hex you or punch you in the face!”

“Already did that. Well, sort of,” Pansy informed her friend and the other witch backed down. Pansy had always been an authority figure.

“The others are already here,” Millicent told them, when Pansy pushed past her and made for the stairs, up to Gregory's room.

“The others?” Draco asked bewildered, which earnt him furious twin stares by the girls. He ducked. What the bloody hell was happening?

As they walked, nearly ran, down the hallway, Draco couldn't help but notice that the Grounds had lost lots of their former glamour. Many antique pieces Draco was used to seeing on the walls or on commodes were gone. Probably for reparation payments. After all, Mr. Goyle had been sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban.

Up ahead Draco could now see weedy Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass, arms crossed over her chest. They both looked anxiously at the shut door of Gregory's room.

The closer the arrivers drew, the louder turned the yelling and crashing sounds that made Draco remember very unpleasant scenes from the Manor during its Death Eater headquarters' period.

“Took your time, did you?” Greengrass gave Draco the stink eye. Okay, this was getting simply weird, considering the witch and he had never interacted much in school. She'd been a bit of a loner.

Same as Nott who now jerked his head towards the noise. “Blaise went in.” He bit his lip. “It's really bad today.”

As if rehearsed, all heads turned towards Draco at Nott's words. Shit, what now?

“Er, what's going on?” Draco asked helplessly, feeling out of his element. He'd always been the leader, had always known all the details; now, he was on the outside and he felt himself flailing in deep waters, trying to reach shore.

“What's going on is,” Zabini, tall, dark and fierce ducked out of the room, as a splintering something hit the wall next to the door from inside, “that Goyle is beyond miserable and drinking himself into an early grave while his supposed best friend,” here he pinned Draco down with his slanting eyes, “can't be arsed to care. Now, get the fuck in there and make him sign the self-referral form or I swear to God I'll hex you into next week.” With that he thrust a stained and crinkled paper at Draco that was headed 'St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries – Detoxification Ward'.

Draco felt his stomach lurch. He had known Gregory was in a bad place, but so were they all after the war and frankly, with most of his friends still holding on to their pure-blood prejudices, Draco had needed to take a break from them; to re-evaluate who he himself wanted to be from now on.

Then of course all that Potter-business had happened and Draco had been too occupied to reach out. Yes, he'd felt bad about it, and yes, he'd missed his sassy friends, but he had also realised that, if he wanted to be free from bias, he had to change – and that included avoiding listening to plain old bigoted comments. He would not leave those ideas unexamined back into his life.

He had wanted to re-connect at some point, but only after he would have found sure footing in his new beliefs.

Apparently he had waited too long.

“Is it,” he swallowed, “is it that bad?”

“Worse,” nodded Nott solemnly. “Malfoy, you have to talk some sense into him. You're the only one he will listen to at this point.”

“What about his mother?” Draco asked as Millicent wordlessly pushed a quill and a small ink bottle at him.

Zabini's face with the high cheekbones went even more ominous. “She had a nervous breakdown last week. Couldn't deal any more. Mother took her on a spa trip to quote unquote 'Find her a new man'.”

Draco raised a brow at that. He could hardly imagine dull Mrs. Goyle to attract any suitors, but then again Mrs. Zabini was a femme fatale par excellence, so maybe...

“Okay, but – why are you all here?”

Greengrass flipped her hair impatiently. “Isn't that obvious? We tried for months, months, to get Goyle sober and you here, to help. Thus, when Parkinson messaged that she would go and pick you up at the Leaky Cauldron, we all came to support you supporting him. We're Real Friends after all. So, you better not muck this up, Malfoy.”

Draco eyed her with a mix of pride and remorse. Greengrass had never really been part of their inner circle and yet she was here. Because that was their Slytherin motto, wasn't it? 'Real Friends', like the Sorting Hat had sung back in their first year.

Nott cleared his throat. “I tried to make him stop drinking, but he won't listen to me. Please, he... the Goyles took me in after my father went to prison.” Draco flinched. Of course he had known of widower Mr. Nott's incarceration, but Draco had assumed his classmate would simply live alone like Draco afterwards. Now he felt guilty for not checking in on the other boy. Draco had not been a great friend lately. “I just couldn't be on my own and he felt so lonely... after Crabbe. Anyway, we're tight now, okay? You need to fix this.”

“I will. And I will fix us, too. If you let me.” Draco looked at his friends one by one: the ones he was close enough to call them by first name and the ones he still referred to by last name after old pure-blood etiquette. He had missed them. So much. “I'm sorry I just disappeared on you. I... was dealing with stuff.”

Greengrass stuck her pinky into her earhole. “Did I really just hear Draco Malfoy apologise or what?”

“You have a lot to make up for, so better be generous,” black-haired Millicent said, shoving a bit too hard at his shoulder.

“But now Greg, yeah? He just has to sign, the rest is taken care of,” Nott pleaded, leaning closer to Draco which brought out their height difference. Nott had to be really worried to talk so much in one day.

Draco swallowed hard and made a decision. “When he's gone you'll be alone again, won't you? Why don't you,” he faltered a bit but ploughed on, “come live we me for the time being?”

There was a moment of silence.

Then Pansy flung her arms around Draco's neck. “You bastard!” she cried, voice wobbling.

Nott's face lit up in sincere gratitude as Draco gently shoved Pansy off. “Thanks... Draco, but I'm going to live with Blaise. It's all sorted out already.”

Silent relief washed over Draco. He'd only offered out of politeness and shame, but he really liked his new lifestyle. Also, it would be weird-ass embarrassing to have Nott see all the Potter-stuff strewn around Draco's place. Yeah, better not.

“Yep, we'll be enjoying the bachelor life together, with the mothers gone.” Zabini slung an arm around a blushing Nott. “Hey, maybe you want to come live with us? You could use some refinement, Malfoy,” he added arrogantly.

“Ah, no, thanks, I'm good,” Draco hastily back-paddled. Screw Zabini and his opinions.

“Alright, alright, we get it, we love you again. Now go in there and take care of Goyle and then let's all grab a drink or something. Er, non-alcoholic of course,” Greengrass said, pointing at the door from behind which loud expletives were shouted their way.

Draco steeled himself and nodded once.

He pushed the handle and entered his oldest friend's bedroom.

The place was a mess. Upset furniture and hurled belongings were everywhere, slivers of breakables all over the place.

Gregory sat in the middle of the chaos cross-legged on the floor, clutching a bottle of Firewhisky, three empty predecessors already piled up.

“Hello, Gregory,” Draco said carefully.

The other boy looked up and Draco had to inhale sharply at the sight: red-rimmed, sunken eyes in a pasty face crowned an entirely uncharacteristic bag of bones. Gregory's broad shoulders were sticking out through his flimsy shirt and Draco could see how much weight his friend had lost. Dammit, Draco, why haven't you come earlier?

“You,” the sitting wizard slurred. “What, hic, what d'you want?”

“To help you,” Draco whispered. He felt his chest tightening. What had he done leaving Gregory alone for so long? The boy just wasn't built to take care of himself.

“If you wanna help, get some more booze. Theo's cuttin' me off, that ijit.” He wobbled.

“And with good reason. You have to stop drinking, Greg.” Draco had never used the abbreviation before, but now it felt right, more intimate. He lowered himself next to his friend. “It's killing you.”

The other boy stared at him vacantly. “What'sit matter? Vince' dead, too.” His voice grew louder. “And you, you're never here. What'sit matter to you, Blood Traitor?”

Draco closed his eyes. “I know. I should have been there for you.” Unexpectedly, he was tearing up. “I was so caught up in my own head and I – I'm really trying to leave this shit behind me, you know? Not you, but this 'blood traitor' talk and all that. See, I realised that's all just something they made up to feel better about themselves. The Dark Lord and our fathers and–”

“Don' you dare talk about Dad!” Greg roared, suddenly jumping at Draco who wasn't fast enough and landed painfully on his back, his friend's long gorilla arms pinning him down. Greg pulled his wand and pointed it at Draco's face. “You lot went scot-free! You cosied up to Mudbloods and that filth! You don' get to tell me what to do no more! Not you!”

It was only because of Greg's high intoxication that the curse missed Draco. By millimetres. What the hell!

Draco pushed him off. It was alarmingly easy. “Now, you listen here, you big oaf! Do you really think it was that simple for me? My family was acquitted because Potter spoke up for us and no other reason. Just because he has a soft spot for lost causes or something. The point is: He was right all along! Blood status doesn't matter. What's important is how you live your life and you are not allowed to throw yours away, you hear me? You can't! Not over something so stupid.” He was fisting the other boy's shirt now. “Greg, I'm begging you. You're my oldest friend, don't you know that? I can't lose you, too. Please, just... go to St. Mungo's with me. Please.” He faltered.

Greg's small dull eyes bore into Draco's. “I don'... Who's Plebs?” Right, Greg didn't remember Potter. Bloody inconvenient.

The drunk carded a big hand through his short, bristly hair. “You always said's right. Blood status.”

“I was wrong,” admitted Draco quietly.

Greg looked lost. “Maybe you're wrong now?”

“I'm not though.” Draco laid the paper on the floor, opened the ink bottle and dipped the quill in. Then he gently took his friend's hand and guided it onto the form. “Just sign here, okay? You will feel better. They will help you there.” Draco hesitated. “Do it for Vincent. He would want you to live.”

The big boy's mouth thinned into a tight line. “Yeah, I– okay then.” He swayed, trying to hit the dotted line. Yet he paused and looked at Draco, eyes wide. “You won' leave me again though, will you? You'll come visit? In that, in de-to-c-k-tion ward?”

“Yes, Greg, I promise.”

Gregory Goyle signed the self-referral form.

***

When Draco had come out of the room, trying his best to steady a dangerously staggering Greg, the former Slytherins had (with united forces) managed to get the patient to the hospital, signing him in and making sure that all of them had visitor privileges.

Then they had ventured to implement Greengrass' earlier suggestion and had ended up having a highly amusing late lunch in the St. Mungo's cafeteria during which they all turned up their noses at the hospital food and exchanged news.

Draco had told them about hunting The Wild Hunt and pried permissions from all of them to enter their private libraries (he'd sent them letters regarding this topic before, but they had been too pissed at him to answer back then).

Of course there had been jokes about the lost guy's occupation (“He's not a potter! His bloody name is Potter!”) and also the heartfelt advice to have a check-up while Draco was here since “imagining someone who isn't there is a sign of insanity, Malfoy”.

To the amusement of everyone but Draco, Millicent even asked suggestively: “So that Plague is keeping you busy at night, eh? Will we get to meet him once you've found him?”

“It's not like that!”

Lunch had bled into teatime. They had separated in the afternoon, but not before making Draco swear he'd come to the next get-together on Friday.

At last it was only Pansy and he, sitting across from each other, cups of cold tea between them.

“So, what's the deal with this ghastly badge?” Pansy shot a look at the Cedric-badge.

“It has got to do with The Hunt. I need it to remind me of Potter.”

Pansy hummed, absent-mindedly staring into the empty room. “I know it was you. The anonymous packages with the potion for dreamless sleep and the Unicorn Powder.”

Indeed had he secretly sent out small rations of self-brewed potions to his friends. He hadn't wanted to hear their pure-blood talk, but he also had known they were in need of some nightmare-less nights, same as everybody these days. Also, a few minutes of fluff were useful every now and then and Weasley had generously gifted Draco with a few Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes' products.

Draco eyed her warily. “You like unicorns.”

“I do.”

She took his hand and he let her. “There's nothing between us anymore, is there?”

Draco just looked at her silently. This was The Talk then. He had been avoiding too many things for too long.

“I guess there never really was in the first place.” A single tear trickled down Pansy's cheek and she quickly wiped it off. “I thought that if I only gave you time, you would come back to me. But you never really were with me, were you? Your heart was with someone else.” Her eyes found his. “Draco, you must be aware that I've loved you since forever. You know that, don't you?”

He nodded once, but stayed silent otherwise.

She looked forlorn. “But you always just tolerated me, isn't that right? When you asked me to the Yule Ball back in fourth year, I was over the moon. From then on you let me get close, let me touch you and I figured someday we would take the next step. But... you actually never saw me that way, did you?”

He squeezed her hand. “No.”

A silent whimper left her.

“I'm sorry, Pansy. I should have made it clear earlier. I was a right prick.”

She smiled watery. “Yeah, you were. But you don't have to apologise. I believed what I wanted to believe. ...same as with the Dark Lord. You know, we eavesdropped on your conversation with Greg earlier,” (“Of course you did.”) “and... it's hard to accept and I don't know yet if I'm really willing to change my views, but I will think about what you said. About blood status and all that.”

“Thank you. For everything.”

***

That night, before reciting his mantra, he reflected on what Pansy had mentioned about his heart being with someone else. His thoughts at least were always with Potter whether back in school or now. But obviously that was only because they were rivals and all.

Or was it? Draco rolled over. Suddenly he wasn't so sure anymore.

Damn Pansy for putting ideas into his head. Of course Draco's heart was not with Potter of all people, absolutely not.

He growled. Time to sleep: Potter, green eyes, stupid glasses, black bird's nest.

Was that all that was left? He shook his head and yawned. He would have to do some deep thinking tomorrow to remember more. He was just too tired now, yeah, that was it. It had been a long day.

***

Granger looked breathtaking in her flowing dress and even Weasley had a grain of dashing that day, Draco had to admit. Probably the inner glow of people in love.

The ceremony was simple but classic, in the garden of The Burrow under a wide canopy. When the couple said their vows the crowd swooned. Putting the ring on his bride's finger, the look the groom gave her made Draco feel like a voyeur with all those emotions right on display.

Miraculously, Draco's presence had not caused even the slightest commotion. Dressed his best and nerves raw, he had come early, expecting to have to argue his way in. Yet Mother Weasley (clearly on the lookout) had dashed over the second he'd arrived and from then on he'd been handed from one family member to the next until finally his aunt had shown up and taken pity on him. Draco had apprehensively taken over Teddy-watch, carefully cradling the infant in his arms, so Aunt Andromeda could go and be very, very excited. That had been a good move since 'baby duty' had got Draco a free pass at both helping with tasks and receiving open hostilities.

Some glares still found his way, but Draco couldn't be bothered. Today was a good day, a happy one.

Even though, watching the newly-weds slow-dance in the middle of the open-air dance floor tugged painfully at his heartstrings somehow. To have someone look at him like that... The sudden, forceful longing was almost palpable and inexplicably his thoughts turned to Potter and his laughter as Draco had spun him around on the stands at the Quidditch pitch all those months ago. Potter was such a bad dancer. Draco swallowed. He would give anything to have the Scarhead tread on his toes about now.

“Here, let me hold Teddy for a while,” said Aunt Andromeda at his side as the dance ended. “Why don't you go and give them your present, dear.”

The present. Right. Draco blinked away the lump in his throat.

He shuffled his way through the crowd and patiently endured an account of very boring Ministry business by Stuck-Up Weasley while they waited in line. Suppose Draco should consider himself lucky to be worth talking to at all. Though he began to suspect that the Golden Couple had instructed their friends and families to treat Draco politely or at least with decency.

When it finally was his turn, he puffed out his chest and was about to start with a speech he'd prepared beforehand when the wind was taken out of his sails by a two-sided hug by the bridal couple. “So good you're here.”

As they drew back with matching brightness in their eyes, Draco was too flustered to say much. Merlin, how did he ever get into this... should he call it friendship? He cleared his throat.

“My heart-felt felicitation, Weasleys,” he began pompously but was interrupted by the bride's ringing laughter.

“It's still Granger, Draco. I kept my maiden name.” She smiled at Draco who looked scandalised. Kept her maiden name? What kind of atrocity was that now? How had he missed that. Well maybe during that one time when he handed a handkerchief to Aunt Andromeda. Obviously she had needed it, not him.

“Ah, alright then, Mrs. Granger–”

This time he was cut short by the exultant husband: “Knock it off, Ferret. You're at our wedding. Time to grow up, don't you think, Draco?” the last word was said with a gleeful grin audible even in his voice.

“Er.” This was not going as Draco had imagined it and now he was a bit put off his stride. Their expectant beaming was unnerving. Fine. He squared his shoulders. “Very well, but only because it's your big day, Ronald. I have a present for you. Actually it's mostly for Hermione here.”

He handed them a bulging envelope with the Malfoy family crest on it.

“Lots of money?” Weasley – no, Ronald – asked eagerly and ripped the paper open. How unrefined.

Draco smirked a bit at the dumbfounded expression on the ginger's face when a heavy ancient key fell into his palm. “Er, thanks?”

Gra– Hermione, took the present from her husband, turning it over in her hand.

“It's the master key to Malfoy Manor and its grounds. I'm giving the properties to you as a permanent loan. Don't worry about the peacocks; they flew off while we were in holding. And in case you're wondering: There are no house-elves left. Also, while the garden is a bit overgrown yet rather nice still, the house itself might need a deep scrub for residual dark magic... ”

They gaped at him.

Draco fiddled with the hem of his sleeve. “I know it’s not ideal – with everything that went down there, but I thought maybe you would want to open a library in the Manor. A public wizarding library, modelled on the Muggle ones. I thought if anyone could pull it off it would be you, Gra– Hermione.”

“That is such a thoughtful gift. I'm speechless, Draco.” She hugged him again.

The Ronald-Weasel looked sceptical. “And your parents don't mind?”

“They agreed when I told them I would never set foot in the house again anyway and that it was for the whole of the wizarding community and also a good way to do penance.”

“I think you've done enough of that already,” the redhead said quietly and while doing so he looked at Draco in an earnest way that made Draco believe he meant it.

'It will never be enough', Draco thought bitterly, but he didn't voice it out loud. Not today.

“Oh, this is great! We can put the reception desk in the entrance hall and–”

“Hermione, could you wait maybe until after our honeymoon to start planning this thing? No offence, sweetheart, but you tend to obsess,” the groom suggested tenderly and took the key from his bride.

“Yes, of course. Thank you again, Draco, a wonderful surprise!”

“Yeah, mate, cool idea.”

Other people in the line pushed forward and Draco was released, feeling happy and somehow freed from a burden. He did not regret his decision.

He sauntered over to the buffet, his gaze wandering between the dishes until he picked a piece of treacle tart.

“Malfoy, a word.” Draco turned to find the bulk of Potter's former dorm mates facing him. Longbottom, Finnigan and Thomas had him surrounded, no way of escaping.

Draco glanced at the happy bridal couple. “Should we take this outside? No need to cause a scene.”

The three boys exchanged silent looks.

“Let's go then,” Finnigan agreed for all of them.

The quartet walked out of the party and around the corner of The Burrow.

Draco braced himself. Well, it would have been too easy to get an uneventful day. His fingers wrapped themselves around his wand. He would not attack but at least try to protect himself.

“Let's get this over with,” Draco hissed between grit teeth.

There was a silent eye battle between the former Gryffindors then Longbottom began to speak words that made zero sense to Draco: “Er, yeah, so we were wondering if you would like to play Quidditch with us next Saturday. There's going to be a Patchers Only game at the pitch at Hogwarts.”

Curious. They must have hit him with a spell while walking. Weird how he hadn't felt anything. But with hallucinations like this, a head injury was certain.

“Well?” Finnigan prodded.

“Huh?” was Draco's very eloquent answer.

“The game,” the Irishman elaborated, rolling his eyes impatiently. “You in or out?”

“I, I, what?” Maybe Draco had died without realising?

“It'll be just for fun. Something some Patchers came up with last week and I mean, you do a lot of work at the castle, so you should come?” Longbottom looked a bit uneasy but then his face sobered. “Your help on the heating system in the dungeons really saved us in winter. I would have frozen my arse off if you hadn't found the reversing spell for that Heat-Blocker Hex.” He gave Draco a serious look. “We noticed, you know. You really are putting your shoulder to the wheel.”

“Also,” Finnigan took the floor, “Ron said you're alright now and if he says so after everything then we can try burying the hatchet as well. What do you think, Malfoy? Truce?”

Draco blinked several times rapidly. The Weasel had said Draco was 'alright', Longbottom wanted to play Quidditch together and Finnigan was offering a truce. Yep, definitely dead.

“Cat got your tongue?” the Irishman joked before suddenly turning stormy-faced. “You're not still thinking you're better than us?!” He thumbed Draco hard in the upper arm. Ouch.

Ouch? This was real then? Oh my.

“I,” Draco rasped and licked his lips, “I would like that, ahem, Quidditch – and the truce, yeah.” Wow, great speech, Draco.

“Cool,” Finnigan, always the mood-swing, was already grinning again, “see you Saturday then. Now I need a drink. What about you?”

Longbottom nodded relieved and Draco thought that this wasn't the worst of ideas. However, Thomas who had not said a single word during the whole conversation, spoke up now: “You two go ahead. I still have something to say to Malfoy.”

His friends looked back and forth between Draco and Thomas and finally decided to stay out of it, awkwardly walking away.

Draco stiffened. All of Thomas' posture screamed antagonism, from his crossed arms to his deadly glare. That was more what Draco had expected.

The other boy shifted. “You held me prisoner in your cellar.”

“I did and I'm sorry. I can't apologise enough.”

“No, you can't,” Thomas spat bitterly. “The war is over, so why do I still have to carry around this crushing burden? I don't want to be hurting anymore and I don't want to be angry or seething or hateful. I am done fighting, yet I'm still having nightmares of the Manor.” He shot Draco a gut-wrenching look. “I'm trying to get better, but you entering my friend circle is bloody not helping.”

Draco swallowed. He deserved this – and so much more. “I won't come then. I'll stay clear.”

Thomas sniffed. “No, that's not the solution. I have to face this now. Let me punch you.”

“Come again?”

“Just once will do. I need to get this out of my system.”

Draco had no time to dodge and the fist hit him hard in the stomach, making him double over in pain. Above him Thomas breathed heavily, looking like he would love to murder Draco.

After a moment though he let out a long sigh, briefly closed his eyes and offered Draco a hand to help him up. Tentatively, Draco took it and Thomas held on for a moment longer than necessary.

Then he let out a shaky laugh. “How about that drink now?”

“Yeah, I could use one, too,” Draco wheezed, still clutching his stomach with one arm. That guy was strong.

“Before that though there's something else.” Thomas glanced at Draco. Uh oh. “I heard... that is, Hermione said you are looking for a missing person?”

Oh. Okay, that was a turnaround. “Yes,” Draco answered carefully.

“Cool, yeah, so, she said you were pretty good at, er, research and finding stuff and well, the thing is,” Thomas rubbed his neck, uncertain, “I'm looking for someone.” He produced a small paper covered in notes. “We were caught together by a gang of Snatchers. They took her somewhere else later. I don't know her name, but she was middle-aged, Muggle-born, brunette, average build. She said she had two kids at home. It's all on here.” He held the paper out to Draco. “She was nice to me and I never knew what became of her, if she's even still alive. Can you look for her?”

Draco stared at him flabbergasted. That was the last thing he'd ever imagined was going to happen.

For a hot second there he thought about explaining the Hunt thing to Thomas, but then he abandoned that idea. A boy he had wronged badly was asking for his help. Draco would find that woman and thusly clear a fraction of his debts.

“Yes, absolutely. I will look for her.” He took the paper.

“Okay.” Thomas fidgeted. “I guess you can tell me your progress on Saturdays then. Because Patchers' Quidditch is going to be a weekly thing.”

“Thanks,” Draco whispered. Then he cleared his throat. “Drink?”

“Hell, yeah.”

They walked back together and were greeted by the worried faces of Longbottom and Finnigan.

“All sorted out,” Thomas told them and snatched the glass out of Finnigan's grip, handing it to Draco. “Now, cheers!”

They clinked glasses and chatted about Quidditch and Hogwarts and the happy couple.

At one point Lovegood in a crazy dress appeared and, after silently scrutinising Draco for a full minute, making him very nervous, she asked him to dance.

“Er, I'm flattered Lovegood, but you do remember the part where I imprisoned you in my house?”

“Yes,” she nodded solemnly, “a terrible place. Your aura was pitch black back then, but it looks much better now. So, dance?” She held her hand out for him to take.

Weird girl.

Weird world.

He took her hand.

***

Associated with The Wild Hunt is also the fairy tale persona Mother Holle or Mother Hulda. She is said to own a pond that is a direct connection to the Otherworld which many believe to be the realm of the dead. Rumour has it that those who wish to leave The Hunt can walk into the next life by entering the pond⁴².
------------------------------------------------------------
42 Unconfirmed accounts state that a part of Holle's Pond is kept at the British Ministry of Magic's Department of Mysteries, supposedly in the form of an archway.

Draco slapped the book shut. Ever since he had told Teddy that story, Mother Holle was his favourite character of The Hunt. But reading the same thing over and over again would get him nowhere.

Time for a break.

“Honey, we're home~”

Or not.

Summer was in full swing and the July sun was beating down through the open window when the newly-weds came back from their honeymoon in the Seychelles and showered Draco with souvenirs and stories in his private library. It was a bit of a surprise as it was Tuesday, not Wednesday. Therefore they found Draco dressed rather casual, lying flat on his stomach with the Potter-glasses on top of his head. Embarrassing.

“...so then she said 'Wouldn't you like to know' and I was like– Ferret! Are you even listening?”

Draco had indeed been idly following the Weasel's story while lazily sipping a cocktail Hermione had produced from a small beaded handbag (Draco hadn't asked about that), until an unfamiliar Athene noctua owl^[3] had shot in from the outside.

Howard, draped on the rug, eyed the intruder with a whipping tail. The owl ignored him and dutifully delivered its mail to Draco.

It was a small package and a letter. Draco unfolded the paper.

“What's it say?” Hermione leant over his shoulder to have a look.

Draco shrugged her off. “Some privacy, woman? Geez, your husband is rubbing off on you.”

“That's not the only rubbing we've been doing,” leered the Weasel.

Draco cringed. “I do not want to hear anything at all about your sex life, Ronald!”

“Well, better second-hand than none, right?” the ginger teased.

Draco was just about to bite back, when the girl of the group cut in: “Hey, boys, will you stop it? The letter, Draco?”

He glowered at her. Really, what gave her the right to be so demanding? Oh well.

Draco turned his focus back onto the paper and read:

Dear Draco,
I know you said you took all you needed from our private libraries, but I've been thinking about your Hunt problem and I've realised that maybe there is one place you hadn't searched yet.
This is my late mother's special cookbook. She used it when she had fancy tea parties with her girl friends. Take a look at page 92. That might help.

Best wishes,
Theo

The former Slytherin wordlessly handed the letter to Hermione and proceeded in unwrapping an old, well-thumbed book titled Cokinge for Wicches.^[1]

Draco, who had tried to produce edibles after a fashion since the end of the war, would have never dreamt of picking up a book like this. He was definitely more a crook than a cook, haha.

But his clever schoolmate had thought outside the box. Figures, Nott (maybe Draco should start calling him Theodore now?) had always been the smartest of their bunch.

As he browsed the pages, he understood what Theodore had meant – all the recipes for supposedly better skin and slimmer hips came with accompanying background stories.

On page 92 was a recipe for Persephone's Eternal Youth Draught. Yeah, as if that would work.

The ingredients were only mildly interesting (tea leaves and then some), but the background information was a jackpot. Draco's eyes bulged.

“Listen to this!” He effortlessly translated from Middle English:
'”Persephone is the ancient goddess of life and death, and guardian of the crossroads between the two. Often depicted as She Who Holds The Key, she gifts fertility and her Draught will make you stay young forever!'
Blablabla. Some nonsense about this tea recipe, but then–
'Just don't ever call her real name out loud! It is forbidden. That is probably why she became the secret helper to those facing final judgement: It is whispered that if you call her then and can state your name, you'll be saved, even if you shouldn't be. If you can't though, you're condemned. Many artists were inspired by this story.'”

“I don't see what that has got to do with The Hunt,” Ronald interrupted, twirling Theodore's letter between his fingers.

“Patience, Weasel! There's a poem added on the bottom of the page:
'Child, oh child, remember this,
if they took you and you're amiss,
ask for her blessing Persephone:
Your name, your heart's name, can set you free
and The Hunt, The Hunt will have to let you be.'”

Draco looked up excitedly. “Sound familiar? It's a bloody forgotten stanza to The Hunt's Lullaby! Yes!”

“Could be. But Draco–” Hermione started sceptically.

“No, I'm sure this is it! Persephone is one of the alter egos of the crone character in The Hunt. And there's the key right here: Call his name, that's all!” Draco laughed happily and toppled over backwards.

“Okay that makes sense.” The witch nodded, taking the book from Draco. “Then the only thing left to do is to find Poppy."

In the silence that followed, two heads turned towards Draco.

"Hm?"

"No, it's just, normally you jump in here and correct us. What's that guy's name again?" the Ronald-Weasel asked.

Draco's brow furrowed. What was the name again? He sat up.

Percy! Patil? Peeves...? He couldn't recall. Draco started to panic. Peter? Pansy! Pans, pots - Potter! Potter!! Relief flooded him.

"Potter," he sighed. He had to remember the kitchenware mnemonic trick somehow... and be more careful.

“We better find him quickly.” Hermione's face was serious. She had noticed Draco's slip-up.

“Yeah...”

***

Ever since unearthing the way to free Potter, Draco had redoubled his efforts of pinpointing the location of The Hunt. Yet while travelling around and following every tiniest hint, the days stretched into weeks and Draco found himself sans verified Hunt hideout on the last day of July.

It was an unusually sunny day and Draco, frustrated by the daily dose of non-results, decided to take a walk.

After carefully Apparating, he landed at Windsor Great Park^[4], a public area also known as Windsor Forest and Great Park which was repeatedly mentioned as one of The Hunt's hunting grounds. Of course now, in summer, there would be nothing to find, but a first look wouldn't hurt.

The nice weather had attracted hordes of visitors and the park was packed with people. Draco studied a map and then ambled along the Long Walk, a pedestrian road that led like an axis through the middle of the park.

Draco's thoughts wandered as he soaked in the sunshine. He had missed walking. Back, after his parents left for France, Draco had used to hike a lot. But these days, he found himself much too busy to engage in simple strolling most of the time.

Somehow, looking for Potter, doing research about The Wild Hunt and all things attached to that had taken over his life in a bizarre way.

Tuesdays were Manor Library planning days and Hermione would show up around noon to discuss details (although he'd never acquiesced to be involved in that project in the first place), as well as her husband in the afternoon with questions on some potions Draco had agreed to help with for the shop (big mistake).

Wednesdays he had Hunt research recap meetings with the Golden Couple over dinner.

Thursdays he would look into missing persons (somehow word had spread that he was good at finding people and so, new letters came in every other week).

Saturdays were for Patchers' Quidditch games with quite a bunch of Potter's friends.

And of course there were the Sundays he still used for actual patching at Hogwarts, on top of the bi-weekly Friday Slytherin get-together and his visiting-Greg trips to St. Mungo's on Mondays.

In between all these things to do and people to meet, Draco stuffed in as much Hunt research as possible, yet it felt never enough.

Especially since he had the nauseating feeling that time was running out: There were days it took until after breakfast till he remembered why he suddenly was a somewhat renowned pro in the field of The Wild Hunt and missing people.

Not today though. He had woken up knowing exactly who Potter was.

Draco now followed an emptier path, leaving the masses behind. Even though he gradually became alright with wearing short sleeves in Muggle areas, he still felt uncomfortable baring his Dark Mark in public.

A movement near a shaded park bench caught his attention. There on the earth, a barred grass snake was winding. The image stirred something inside him and made him come closer.

“Well, hullo there,” he cooed and felt a bit idiotic. “Are you lost?”

Draco snickered. “Weird, in the past, a snake would have made me think of Slytherin, now it only reminds me of him... all I do these days is think about him.” He sighed and sat down on the bench. “He can speak with your kind, you know? He's a Parselmouth.”

The reptile made an eight-figure with its body, hissing quietly. Maybe it was chasing an insect or something. “Ha, look at me, talking to a snake.”

Draco suddenly shuddered. Being here at the park made him feel so much closer to Potter.

“Is it crazy that he's always on my mind? Even before... See, he got himself kidnapped by The Wild Hunt and now I have to clean up his mess and look for him. It's driving me nuts because I finally know what to do to get him freed, but I can't bloody find him. And all it would take is calling his name once. That's it! Easy enough one should think, but no~, he has to be unlocatable.”

The sun painted glowing patterns on Draco's knees. They felt warm and pleasant. He put a hand on his thigh.

Hissing at times, the snake was still there, curled up at his feet, seemingly dozing off now. It was nice to have an audience that couldn't spill his secrets to others.

“Do you know what date it is? Right, how could you: It's July 31st, his birthday. He's nineteen years old today. Imagine that. Next year I'll know him almost half my life...” Draco quickly looked around and found himself alone with his snakey listener. He pulled his wand from his pocket and started burning little doodles in the sand – a lightning bolt, round glasses, a heart...

A heart? Draco goggled the atrocity for a full thirty seconds before vanishing all of it, blushing violently.

“It's not– I'm not– Don't you dare think that I would–” But the reptile didn't seem to care much about his stammering, eyeing a point right of Draco's shoulder. Of course, why would a snake give a damn? Really, Draco, get it together.

He stared at the disturbed earth. A heart.

“I think I might have feelings for him.” Draco swallowed. There, he said it. World was still here. Good. Not the end of it then.

Maybe sometimes you need someone, who just listens, for you to find your own truths. Yeah, he... maybe he liked Potter... a tiny bit.

So, perhaps the way Potter laughed when he was carefree was slightly breathtaking. Well, possibly Draco thought it somewhat endearing that Potter’s pesky temper tantrums mostly occurred when he was defending other people. Also, Draco might just find it cute how Potter blushed. Oh and not to forget that ass… But of course, these were all rather infinitesimal things. Not worth dwelling on, really. Ahem.

Better change the topic.

“Do you think he'll come back with me once I find him?” Draco mused thoughtfully, voicing another thing he had never dared to face before. “What if he wants to stay with The Hunt? For all I found out they are a rather free bunch. Maybe he likes that... He... he's a good guy. That makes it hard on him sometimes. He forgives everyone eventually, even me. But not himself, I think. Even though he didn't do anything wrong, really. But sometimes I wonder if it could be that The Hunt took him because he wanted to be taken, as punishment or something.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair. “I'll just have to make him then, right? After all, I'm not chasing storms all around the globe to come up empty-handed. I'll drag him back with me even if he's kicking and screaming. Yeah.”

He smiled down at the serpent, feeling suddenly chipper and full of energy. “Just you wait and see, I'll bring him next time, that's a promise.” His grin widened. “Thanks for the talk. You're not a bad listener.”

Draco got up, as suddenly the snake hissed angrily. Shit. He backed away hastily. There you go, never talk to strangers or animals. “Sorry!” The reptile started pursuit. Uh oh, what did he do to make it so livid? Maybe it was an after-doze grump.

Anyway, Draco decided not to stay and find out and took to his heels, running down the pathway until he reached one of the park's exits, Blacknest Gate.

Only as he had crossed the park's border did he hesitate for a moment. He had felt so close to Potter here. Draco looked over his shoulder.

“I'll find you,” he said to no one in particular, then Disapparated home.

Chapter Text

“Would you stop looking at me like that? I'm not up to something!” Draco grumbled.

The answer was a huff.

“I'm re-planting trees for Merlin's sake! Would you give it a rest? I'm trying to patch things, okay? How many apologies do you want?” Draco turned exasperatedly around to face his interlocutor.

The storm-grey hippogriff didn't seem convinced, orange eyes burning holes into Draco.

“Ugh, fine then, do whatever you want. But seriously why don't you go play with that giant half-brother of Professor Hagrid's instead, hm? He's such a cheerful chap, fun to be with, no?”

The animal clicked its beak with a dangerous sounding snap. All right, better leave it.

Draco turned back to hovering a tree sapling into one of the two dozen cavities he had excavated earlier.

There had been damages to the tree population of the Forbidden Forest during The Battle of Hogwarts, especially on the edges where spells had burnt down and logged much of the old stand.

As wary as Draco was of the Forest, others seemed to be even less inclined to do this work, so he had ended up marching out on his own (not super unusual per se) on this crisp autumn day at the end of October.

Here, under the branches, the air was still chilly and a smell of petrichor told of the rainfall earlier this morning.

Draco would have probably shivered if he hadn't been working so hard that he sweated instead. Planting trees (even with magic) was rather laborious. He already knew he would be dead tired tonight.

Also, being under constant scrutiny did not help to improve his working morale.

He threw a resentful look at his self-imposed guard: Front legs folded neatly, Professor Hagrid's hippogriff lay in the only patch of sunlight, watching Draco's every move. That beast.

This was not a new occurrence though.

Every time in the last months when Draco had worked out on the grounds, the hippogriff had followed him around, hovering and seemingly making sure that Draco did nothing illegal.

Draco had realised the first time he'd seen that creature back at Professor Hagrid's hut in sixth year that this was most certainly the very same animal that had attacked Draco in third year. Professor Hagrid could call that beast any number of code names but it was still the hippogriff that should have been executed a long time ago.

When Draco had spotted the thing first during patching, he had not believed his eyes and had hastily departed from the grounds. However, as the fiend had decided to shadow him whenever possible, Draco had got used to it somehow. He had even (begrudgingly) tried to apologise, repeatedly so, but the hippogriff just wouldn't leave him alone. Although it should be a win for Draco that he hadn't been attacked again either.

Just eyed. Very, very sharply.

“Hello, Buckbeak –Witherwings!–, Malfoy, hey...”

Great. Another pesterer. “Save it, Potter, I know it's the same thing back from when it nearly killed me. Not that I care anymore.”

Potter, petting the gruesome beak, threw Draco a dark look. “Buckbeak's not an 'it', he's a he. And you're very lucky he forgave you.” Potter turned back to the animal. “That was big of you. Also, Hagrid wants you at the hut.”

As the hippogriff got up, he gave Draco one last calculating glare and then left gracefully.

Draco grumbled: “Well, his forgiveness is about as believable as the pure coincidence that brought you here.”

“What was that?!” Potter's voice had a sharp edge to it that made Draco pause. That hadn't been such a terrible jab, so why was Potter getting so worked up? “If he hadn't pardoned you, he would have already taken measures into his own... talons and I came here to bloody help you, so maybe show some gratitude, you ass!”

“What's got your wand in a knot?”

“Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that you laughed at the prospect of an innocent animal being murdered because of something childish you did, on purpose. Is that enough to be cross with you, you think?” Potter was gaining momentum.

Well, so was Draco: “What the hell, Potter, that was ages ago and I apologised for that, didn't I? Ask Professor Hagrid, shit, ask Hippo. 'I'm sorry', how many times do I have to say it?”

“Maybe until you mean it?” Potter challenged.

“I am meaning it, you git!”

Potter was really charged now: “Yeah? Then how about all the other occasions you were purposely cruel towards others? Let's see, how often did you nearly have me kicked out of school?”

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but didn't get a word in.

“But you don't give a damn about others, do you? Not even the ones living under your own roof. You treated,” Potter choked, “Dobby like shit: He always had these injuries from punishments!”

Draco shifted uncomfortably. “That wasn't me. Besides, I'm not treating house-elves badly anymore.”

Potter laughed meanly. “Just because you don't have any. No one would want to work for you – or with you really, as we can see by the fact you're all alone out here.”

Draco felt irritation bubbling up, but he pushed it down and concentrated on the saplings instead, back turned to Potter. “I'll have you know that I am decent with the kitchen elves these days; they sometimes bring me food while I'm patching. So, not all alone.” 'And right now, I could do without you and your explosive mood,' he only thought. No need to add fuel to the fire.

“You know what really annoys me?” Potter purposefully stepped in the path of Draco's hovering of a little tree. “The fact that you always rectify your behaviour, always try to explain it all away: 'Oh, it wasn't me, it was Umbridge, my father, Voldemort–'” Potter showcased in a high pitched mock-voice.

“Can you turn it down a notch?” Draco hissed between gritted teeth. Slowly this was getting on his nerves.

“I don't think so, no,” Potter's gaze was burning, a challenge.

Bloody Draco's luck that Mr. Look-At-Me-I'm-So-Perfect had to come here and take his bad mood out on an innocent tree planter.

Screw that.

“Well, then how about you finish this? As clearly a morally corrupt person like me should not handle young ones; I could contaminate the saplings.” Draco was seething now. He put the tree down. Time to retreat.

“Yeah, that's right, coward! Just run away. That's the thing you do best,” Potter spat as the gardener started gathering his things.

Draco straightened, anger blazing. “What is your problem, Potter?”

“I don't have a problem!” the other boy almost shouted.

Yeah, right. “Clearly.”

“Nothing a Death Eater like you could understand,” Potter sniffed, eyes following Draco's wand as it moved to silently clean dirt and leaves off his clothes.

“Ex-Death Eater.” Draco's voice was strained.

Potter sneered: “Are you sure? There are spots that don't come off.”

SNAP. That was it!

Draco would not stand here and let himself get insulted just so Potter could feel better on what was clearly an off-day for the Glasses.

Wordlessly, Draco started walking away.

The corners of his eyes were burning. It was bad enough to be stabbed with words like that, but even worse that it was Potter. Draco had thought they would get along now. He had thought they were good. But that Potter still thought of Draco like that... Death Eater... Bloody Merlin, get a grip, Draco, crying won't bloody help.

As he passed Potter Draco bumped hard into his shoulder. Potter in turn grabbed Draco's arm and yanked him back.

“Don't walk away from me!”

Draco tried to shake him off, anger taking over. “Hands off, Potter!”

The grip on his arm tightened. “You can't leave me.”

Potter's eyes were wild and Draco's patience finally gave out.

“Get! Off! Me!”

What Draco had tried to do was to draw his wand, what actually happened was that Potter moved at the same time which ended with Draco's elbow hitting Potter full in the face.

From then on things regressed rapidly, both boys punching, kicking, yelling, scratching and pulling hair like furies.

They were rolling on the forest ground, wrestling with each other, a ringing in their ears, faces anger-red and clothes tousled.

Potter was spitting mad and Draco had trouble avoiding all the attacks directed at him – verbally and physically.

Maybe it wasn't the best idea to have a fist fight with the Chosen One. Time to end this.

Draco used his momentum to gain leverage on the other boy and managed to pin him down. As much as he struggled, he couldn't get out and Draco held Potter's wrists in an iron grip on either side of Potter's head.

Their furious faces only inches apart, Potter's breath huffed hot on Draco's cheeks. “I don't know who rained on your parade, Scarhead, but I've got enough of your little-boy-tantrum. Start again and I'll hex you.” With a final hard squeeze Draco pushed Potter's arms away and sat up on his heels.

To his horror the boy underneath him started sobbing. Thick, painful sobs that told of big inner turmoil. As if the aggressiveness hadn't been enough of a sign of that.

Draco's ire crumbled a bit and he wavered, unsure of what to do next. “Look here, Potter, I don't know what's going on, but–”

He was cut off as Potter abruptly moved up and basically threw himself at Draco. Bodily. Draco lost his balance and fell backwards, landing on his behind, Potter half on top of him. The latter was now bawling his eyes out, hands tightly fisted into the front of Draco's robes.

Wonderful, really just what Draco needed. This wasn't uncomfortable or anything, nope.

He sighed deeply and shifted so that he could put both arms around the crying boy in his lap. One hand started stroking Potter's untameable mane (finding it surprisingly soft) and Draco forced his anger down, beginning to whisper soothing words into Potter's ear, Draco's chin on top of Potter's head.

Eventually the shivering stopped and Potter calmed down.

Then he spoke: “Ginny and I broke up.”

“I see.” Draco carded his fingers through Potter's curls.

“She said that we had to stop seeing each other, that we couldn't be together.” Potter's voice was thick with tears.

“Hm,” hummed Draco. Now probably wasn't the best time to point out that Potter had barely ever spent time with his girlfriend anyway and that this break-up had been inevitable. Also, Draco had seen it coming from miles away. Good riddance, if you asked him.

“She was really nice, sat me down and said that she felt like my heart wasn't in it anymore. Hic. She, she said that it was better to be just fr-friends.” The words were muffled as Potter's face was still pushed into Draco's chest.

Shockingly, Draco found himself agreeing with a Weasley for once in his life.

Now was the time to be supportive though. “I mean, you could probably win her back by showing her your heart is indeed in it and all. If that's what you want.” Draco paused, considering. Why did these words feel like acid on his tongue? “What do you want, Potter?”

Potter's grip tightened in Draco's robes.

Then, after a long moment, Potter whispered, raw from crying: “I don't know.”

Well, better than wanting to get back together. Draco shook his head, wondering why he even cared. Then he snuggled his cheek into Potter's hair (to comfort Potter, obviously).

So they remained.

Time became meaningless.

Draco watched the birds in the treetops. A light breeze moved the branches. Cold, seeping into his back from the floor, was contrasted by Potter's hot body. Forest smells mixed with a sweet scent that reminded Draco vaguely of treacle tart. A moment detached from time, just Potter and Draco and tranquillity.

Maybe it wasn't entirely terrible holding Potter like this. Not that Draco would ever say that out loud, although their closeness wasn't that unusual nowadays: After all, since that sunrise at the memorial site in August, Potter's casual touches had been rather frequent. No sense of personal space, that guy. But... they weren't all bad...

“I think she was right,” Potter finally said, sitting up carefully and rubbing at his eyes. “I wanted a relationship so badly that I overlooked all the signs that this one didn't fulfil me. Maybe.” He cleared his throat. “Thanks for listening and, er, sorry I was such an idiot earlier. I guess I needed an outlet and there you were and... I shouldn't have though. Really, I'm sorry, Malfoy.” He smiled a tiny smile.

“It's alright, Potter. You weren't wrong with what you said about me.” Seeing Potter so hurt, Draco was in a generous mood.

“No, that was awful of me,” Potter shook his head vehemently, “and I truly don't think of you like that, you know?” His blood-shot eyes were pleading now. “I really, really don't think you're a Death Eater anymore. I just,” he swallowed, “I was just looking for a way to rile you up.”

Draco smiled humourlessly. “Mission accomplished.”

“Are you very mad?” Potter looked like a kicked puppy.

For heaven's sake. Draco took a deep breath. “No, not very. But you owe me a Butterbeer.”

Potter grinned at that. “Sure thing.” He gestured at the knocked over saplings. “Shall we finish this first though?”

“Yeah, maybe best.”

It took the rest of the day to plant all the new trees and by the time they were done, they both felt like they could fall asleep while standing.

As they made their way towards the gates Potter's mood suddenly seemed to plummet back to not-great. He scowled.

“What's it now?” Draco sighed.

“Sorry?”

“You look like a rain cloud.”

“Oh, I just realised it's Halloween this weekend. Ginny and I had thought of going to visit my parents' gravesite together.”

Right, Potter's parents had been killed on All Hallows' Eve. “Yeah, that's unfortunate.”

The newly-single Saviour gave Draco a pondering side-glance. “...do you have any plans for Halloween?"

Draco nearly tripped. Potter couldn't possibly mean.... or could he...? Okay, gamble. "Yeah, actually just made some today."

Potter's face fell. “Ah.”

"I'm going to Godric's Hollow to pay my respects to some war heroes." Draco shot Potter a look filled with mirth. "Maybe you want to tag along?"

"That would be great," beamed the other boy with a smile brighter than the sun.

Sometimes Potter was really easy.

Chapter Text

“I'm going back. I'm going back right now! Lightning, come ON.” But Lightning, the horse, gleefully ignored his master's wishes and pranced on with The Wild Hunt.

Seeker, glasses askew, tried fruitlessly to yank the reins around, but the animal stayed stoically on track, each second carrying them further away from the barn and the boy with the storm-grey eyes.

“Bloody hell! Ember,” Seeker shouted over his shoulder, “help me! I need to turn around!”

Ember didn't seem fazed and simply re-positioned baby Dreamer in one massive, sooty arm. “You can't. The Hunt goes forward, never back.”

“That's great and all, but I want – I need – to go see him, the boy at the barn!”

“Seeker, calm down! We're already over another country,” Wolfe tried to convince him. Her face caught the first light of the moon that tinted her scars silvery.

“I don't care!” Seeker's tense energy had his body high-strung.

“That guy won't probably even be there anymore,” BraveHeart supplied unhelpfully and added giddily. “But look! Snowdrop and Scoffer are doing loop-the-loops! Amazing!” He promptly attempted a try of his own.

“Then I'll go search for him!” Seeker's eyes were blazing. He had no thoughts for owls or men-turned-dogs at the moment.

“How about this,” Half said emphatically, his red hair floating in the wind like a cloud, “we're about to land over there, see? Let's talk this through once we're down, yeah?”

“Fiiiiine,” Seeker whinged and let the reins loose, collapsing on his horse's neck. He hated it, but he had no choice and ever since he joined The Hunt, his friends had not steered him wrong, so maybe it was a good idea to listen to their advice first.

Yet all he wanted to do was to go back to him.

Why though? Not completely sure himself, Seeker turned to rest his cheek on Lightning's soft hair. Just something about the blond boy had shaken him so thoroughly that Seeker simply knew he had to speak to him... and maybe hold onto him and never let him go? Seeker shooed the notion away. Weird thoughts like that kept popping up now. That's why he needed to meet Barn Boy, to settle this, yeah.

When they touched down to earth, the usual storm cloud of snowflakes and laughter enveloped them as the other members of The Hunt unmounted. People and animals alike scattered to huddle in groups on the hilltop they had landed on. A variety of noises in addition to chatter filled the air as they made ready to set up camp for the night, business as usual.

Not for Seeker though, he was antsy. He jumped down from Lightning's back and frustratedly watched as everyone else moved super-slow and then – were they for real? – attempted to start a camp fire.

“We don't have time for that!” he nearly shouted. “I need to go back now!”

Wolfe, petting her horse, Binky, looked at him with furrowed brows. “Ember told you – The Hunt doesn't go backwards.”

“Yes, yes,” Seeker snorted, throwing his hands in the air. “But you all also said that you spent your summer mostly at the Hohen Meißner and then we went back there, so The Hunt does go back sometimes.”

“To places, yeah, but never straight back along its own track,” Wolfe nodded. “It's impossible, actually.”

“It's not!” Seeker gritted his teeth.

“Oh, but it is, it so is! Hunt magic. Biscuit?” BraveHeart, the gang's secret food storer, had opened a bag of assorted sweets and was offering them to everyone.

“Fuck!” Bloody Hunt magic and Hunt rules and Hunt everything. Seeker was so done with this. He'd been almost content for a while, but now... that boy... enough was enough. “I don't care what you say: I'm going back.”

Ember, feeding a piece of food to Scoffer the man-dog, didn't even look up. “And we don't care what you say: You can't just go back.”

“Watch me,” Seeker spat and made a move to get back onto his horse.

“Okay, okay, but before you go, let's all have a cup of tea together, shall we? After all, today was The Last Ride of the year and you are saying that you want to leave us. A farewell drink won't harm now, will it?” Half's calm face soothed Seeker's frayed nerves a bit.

“Yeah, I, sure, okay, you're right, yeah,” Seeker ran a hand through his unruly black hair and smiled sheepishly. Of course, going back now would mean leaving his friends behind. His heart felt torn. Yet he had made up his mind the moment his eyes had met the other boy's. Seeker simply needed to speak with Grey Eyes; even if that meant saying goodbye to his gang.

He dropped down at the already burning fire and sighed. “I'll take that biscuit after all, BraveHeart.”

Uncharacteristically silent, the tiny boy handed over the sweets and sat down next to Seeker.

Everyone was gathering now: Wolfe and Half, Ember and Dreamer, Snowdrop and Scoffer, even the horses – Lightning and Gee and Binky and Grapes. All of them, humans and animals, ghosts and whatnots.

Seeker swallowed. This would be harder than anticipated.

“Don't be sad,” Half said comfortingly. “It's all going to be okay.”

The redhead had produced a couple of mismatched goblets from somewhere and now filled them with water, throwing in weird looking leaves.

Seeker eyed his drink sceptically as everyone grabbed one.

Half grinned. “It's special-occasions-tea. I snuck these herbs from Berchthold's magical garden in Holle's Pond.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Don't ask me how I did it, but it surely wasn't easy to get them.” At the others' goggling, he laughed. “Let's just say I have my sources. Cheers – or Na Zdravi as they say here in Czechia! To Seeker of The Hunt!”

“To Seeker!” they echoed.

'To you', Seeker thought and emptied his cup.

***

“Seeker, wake up! We're moving on.” Ember had none-too-gently nudged Seeker in the side with his giant foot.

“Wuzzat?” Seeker startled, sitting up and feeling disoriented.

“Good morning, sleepyhead! Fallen asleep at the fire, have we?” BraveHeart chirped into Seeker's ear and handed him a piece of dried meat. “Here. Breakfast's on the go.”

“Everyone ready? Ember, why don't you ride with me today?” Wolfe tossed her hair back and mounted Binky. “You don't mind, do you, Seeker?”

“Ah, no... no.” Seeker's head was foggy.

“You're not much of a drinker, are you?” Half had come over and offered him a hand up, which Seeker took thankfully.

“I guess not,” he groaned. “What did we do last night? Hell, what did we do all of yesterday? My memories are hazy...”

For a moment, Half looked guilty, but the sentiment quickly disappeared. “We drank a bit. But aside from your headache, everything will be fine.” His smile had a touch of something darker to it that Seeker couldn't quite place. “It's all going to be okay.”

Seeker nodded and climbed up Lightning's back, holding on for dear life and feeling ill – and what's more, like he had forgotten to do something important. But The Hunt was moving on and his horse knew the way and why worry? He laid his head onto Lightning's neck and tried for a bit more sleep, another knot on his bracelet turning red.

***

“Shush! Quiet now. This way!” Seeker nodded his head to the right and the group of two dozen people followed him unquestioningly through the undergrowth.

Specks of March sun sprinkled the forest floor and revealed the first spring flowers between the tree trunks.

When they reached a clearing which was at one side shielded by a rock formation, Seeker gave the halt sign and the group formed a circle around him. “Okay, this is a good spot. We'll plant the flag on top of the rocks; this way, part of us can surround the rock area and observe, while the others try to capture the opponent team's flag.”

There were nods all around. Seeker, the newbie wearing Perchta's crown, had proven to have a knack for this sort of thing and no one questioned his leadership skills anymore.

“Everyone remember the rules?” Half took over, eyeing them all sharply. “We hide our flag here; the other team hides its. Whichever team finds the rival contenders' flag first, wins. If you yourself get 'captured', you have to return to Holle's Pond and wait till the end of the game.” He was pacing between them. “That is unless you can find or create a permitted hiding spot – which can be what, Wolfe?”

Wolfe growled. “I've beat your ass a hundred times already, I bloody know the rules.”

Half didn't blink. “Humour us.”

“Fine,” she said flippantly, examining her nails as she spoke. “According to the rules, safe zones are either under flax stalks (good luck finding those in the forest). Or you can create hiding spots by cutting one to three crosses into a hollow tree trunk with your axe while saying 'Gott wael's'^[1] – now repeat that!” The group did. “And don't forget: The more crosses the longer your hideout is valid. Got it? Good, now show me your axes. Okay, but don't get any ideas, we don't want anyone hurt! ”

Seeker's thumb traced idly the rather blunt edge of his small axe. They were part of the game since forever, he'd been told, and mostly just decoration. But he still didn't like the idea of carrying a weapon. Yet marking and using hiding spots had won his team many victories and he was not about to lose this round.

“Divide the group,” he told Half and turned to BraveHeart at his side. “Do you still have the flag?”

“Sure thing! Wouldn't lose it, boss,” the tiny, masked boy grinned like a Cheshire cat, visibly proud to have been named flag bearer of this game. He pulled out a crumpled piece of rainbow-coloured cloth from his pocket and presented it.

“Can you get it up there?” Seeker pointed at the rock formation.

“Yep, no problem. Hey, good thing you stayed with us, eh? Your plans of leaving The Hunt were really irrational after a–oops! I-I meant,” BraveHeart suddenly stuttered, “I'll better get– yeah, hehe, er, up he goes.” With that he started climbing, abandoning his confused friend.

Seeker furrowed his brows. What had BraveHeart been talking about? Leaving The Hunt? When had he ever wanted to leave The Hunt? Here, where his friends were, where he was free and every day was fun – who would ever want to leave? He shook his head. BraveHeart, that overexcited child, was simply spouting nonsense since he was so happy to have a main part in this game's round, surely.

In the meantime Wolfe and Half were sorting their group into protectors and captors.

Seeker watched them idly. Today's team was a wild mix of humans of all shades and a handful of moss folk. Those were still odd to him.

When The Hunt had first arrived at this forest, Seeker had been very startled by the little child-like creatures whose whole bodies were covered in moss. Some of them looked old, some ugly but others were almost pretty and all of them had a human flair somehow.

“Perchta is their 'mother',” the others had explained. “They serve her and take care of Holle's Pond and food and all these things, for her and The Hunt. They even heal riders should they get injured. But the moss folk themselves don't ride with us. They just wait during the Yuletide till we settle somewhere for the rest of the year. We saw them last time, when we laid low at the Hohen Meißner in summer and autumn. They are a fun little people, but most of them only come out at night.”

That had turned out to be true. Moss folk were barely seen during daylight hours. That their team today had five of them was purely because these little guys loved playing Capture The Flag.

They also loved doing mischief and planting trees.

The latter Seeker had found out was rather useful sometimes.

As his group members discussed last bits of strategy, his mind went back to the day The Hunt had come to this area. He remembered feeling groggy from drinking too much the night before and he had been very grateful to simply lay down and rest while the others had taken care of finding a nice camping place in the middle of an open forest on a wide clearing near Holle's Pond (which had once again travelled on ahead of The Hunt).

Seeker had watched them set up this and that until his eyes had been drawn to a soft Somewhen Glow in the shadows, between the trunks. There, almost out of sight, had walked a majestic, giant stag in whose wake all trees had withered. Seeker had recognised him without anyone needing to tell him: Berchthold.

It had been the last time Seeker would see him for a while, as the gang had informed him that The Hunt's leader rode solitarily outside of winter time: Berchthold ruled The Hunt during Twelvetide, Perchta during the rest of the year.

Thinking about it, Seeker wasn't all that surprised that Berchthold could also shapeshift and that his animal form was a stag. Figured really, since he usually sported antlers and all.

His tendency to destroy trees though made the happiness with which moss folk re-planted them come in very handy.

“Did I miss something?” BraveHeart landed next to Seeker and wiped some sweat off his forehead, startling his friend out of his reverie.

“No, you're just in time. You'll be a captor today.” Seeker raised his voice: “Now, everyone, gather round! We got this. Let's win us a piece of forest. See you at the Pond when it's over!”

They dispersed.

Of the gang, Seeker and Wolfe had stayed back with half of the team as protectors, while Half and BraveHeart went forward with the other half as captors.

Since The Hunt's games of Capture The Flag were accumulating, at that moment, about two thirds of forest territory 'belonged' to Seeker's team and should they win today they would gain another body of land.

Grinning at the prospect, Seeker found a hollow tree and cut three crosses into the bark while reciting the incantation. He didn't like being a protector all that much. Captor was far more his style. Waiting around for something to happen was boring. He liked the action better.

Maybe if he snuck away he could...?

“Don't touch me! We spread plagues!”

Uh oh. Seeker peered around the tree he'd taken cover behind: One of his team mates, a moss person, was on the verge of being captured by– Ember, of all people, bloody hell.

Ember, after reluctantly leaving Dreamer in Scoffer's care, had, to everyone's displeasure, decided to join the opposing team.

“They have a cooler flag,” Ember had grinned, when the gang had asked him and Seeker had once again been hit by the feeling of deep unease regarding the big, broad-shouldered boy.

Or maybe it simply was the flag, really. After all, the skull-and-bones Jolly Roger of the opponent team always made Seeker shudder with a deep-seated aversion and when he had told his friends so, all but Ember had agreed. There was just something dark about that skull...

However, Ember choosing the other team meant that right now they were rivals and Seeker had to act.

“Hey, big guy, over here!”

Risking to get caught himself, Seeker sprinted out from his hiding spot, using the element of surprise to grab the moss person and make a U-turn, before Ember even had time to react.

“Stop right there, you!” the sooty boy roared and set off to hunt them down.

Darn, that big oaf was fast! Not surprising, though, of someone who had run alongside The Hunt for days.

Seeker and his team mate made it into the hollow tree by a hair. Squeezed together uncomfortably, they both gasped for air. Meanwhile, Ember unable to 'capture' them as they were in a safe zone swore colourfully and stomped his huge feet.

“You can't hide in there forever!”

“Nope, but you don't have time to wait us out. We have three crosses which means fifteen minutes. Unless you want to miss the capturing of the flags, I'd say you go, Emberly,” Seeker teased.

The other boy glared at them, seemingly undecided which path to choose. Just then a loud clamour from the left side of the forest told them that the game most likely was over and Seeker's team had won once again.

“Shit!” Ember cursed and spat onto the ground.

The two winning team's members untangled and got up.

“Good game, Em. Sorry for... you know. No hard feelings?” Seeker held out his hand, but Ember was still seething and stomped away with 'bad loser' written all over his broad, retreating back.

Seeker shrugged. “He doesn't like losing, don't mind him.”

“I don't,” said the little person and swept some dried leaves off their moss. “But I do appreciate the help earlier.”

“Yeah, no problem. We're on the same team after all. Let's go celebrate, shall we?”

“It's not a given to put oneself in danger to save others, Master Seeker. I will compensate you with good advice: Look at the stars.”

“The stars...?” Seeker tilted his head upwards, but of course, it was daytime and also the trees hindered his view. When had he last seen the stars though? Sure, during flying there had been sun and moon (and probably stars), but here inside the forest realm? At all times a big snow cloud hovered over the base camp at Holle's Pond, so... Really, it had been forever since Seeker had regarded a unveiled night sky.

He was about to tell that to his companion, when he found, he was alone in the forest. He clicked his tongue. Little moss bastard, what a prank to leave Seeker alone like a fool.

Well, celebrations awaited.

***

“April fool!”

“Argh!” Seeker, who was in the middle of a game of ninepins with the gang, suddenly found himself at the centre of a cloud of feathers which apparently had exploded from the pin he had just hit.

“That, p, is not, pp, funny!” he complained while spitting out fluff and rubbing at his eyes – the prank had even snuck behind his glasses.

Meanwhile his friends roared with laughter, BraveHeart even falling to the floor shaking.

It was funny though, if Seeker was truthful. He tried to hide a grin, but failed. “You guys are the worst,” he chuckled. “Just wait till I get back at you.” He picked more feathers out of his hair and never-withering flower crown.

It had started in the morning with Wolfe serving candy apples for breakfast... Seeker had only found out after the first hearty bite that they were indeed candy onions. He had simultaneously cried and spat out for half an hour, cursing those wicked pranksters up and down.

Then there had been the incident when Half had abruptly started screaming at Seeker not to move since there was a HUGE spider on his head (obviously not, but it still had had Seeker's heart rate going up like crazy).

Also that time in the afternoon when Ember, Dreamer in arms, had unpromptedly looked at Seeker and nonchalantly told him that Ember, by the way, would kill him for losing the Jolly Rogers every game lately. It had been such an intense moment that Seeker hadn't been sure what to think, Ember's eyes dangerously calm. After a few seconds the travel companion had barked a laugh and shaken his head: “Just joking, man.” But Seeker hadn't been completely convinced. Ember would always have a darkness to him somehow.

Now, during setting-in dusk, Seeker was tired of the pranks. He grumbled under his breath, brushing feathers off his clothes. It had been such a nice game!

Something warm landed on his shoulder.

“Hello, Snowdrop, you're my only real friend here,” Seeker said in a lamenting tone, purposely ignoring the still giggling other players.

He reached out and petted his owl. She cooed into his ear, holding out a leg.

Seeker's brows furrowed. “What do you have there?”

Skilfully wrapped around Snowdrop's ankle was something that seemed to be a rolled-up leaf. Seeker carefully extracted it and unfurled the green sheet.

“Woah, you got an invitation! How cool! Can I come with? Please? Please, please, pleassseeee?” BraveHeart's shoulder was pressing hard into Seeker as the smaller boy tiptoed to get a better look at the... 'invitation'?

Seeker blinked. Indeed, there really were miniscule letters on the leaf, barely to make out. He squinted his eyes and tried to decipher the text:

The moss folk dance throughout the night.
You'll find us at our clearing, sprite.
You and your friends, at darkness fall:
Join us in a masquerade ball!

“Un! Believable!” Half pried the invite from Seeker's hands and stared at it with eyes huge as his sense of humour. “Being asked to attend the moss folk celebrations is like the highest possible honour. Wow mate, they must really like you.”

“Well, he wins them a lot of Capture The Flag games, doesn't he?” Ember threw in, leaning over Half's shoulder. “Tonight's a bit spontaneous though, no? I have nothing to wear.”

Wolfe snorted. “You never have anything to wear, Ember. You are barely clothed as is.” She pointedly looked at the small piece of old robes just about hiding his privates. “I, however, need a new dress pronto.” She shot the clouded sky a calculating glance. “Will be dark soon, I better hurry.” With that she made to leave.

“Maybe,” Half said dryly, raising an eyebrow, “you would like to ask Seeker first if he would be so kind as to take us along?”

She turned while continuing to scurry away, now walking backwards. “Of course we're going with him, right, Seeker?” She didn't wait for a reply. “And in case you were wondering, yes, you can go with me to the ball. But only if you behave! Now, gotta run, dresses don't borrow themselves.”

Half, mouth half-open, blinked, then shook his head in disbelief. “Girls! Am I right?”

“Hilarious,” Seeker drawled, looking bored. “You can stop acting now. 'April fool!' Got it. Very well done.” He lazily clapped his hands twice. Damn them if they tricked him one more time today. This was obviously a prank. “I can't believe you are in on this though, Snowdrop. I thought you'd stick by me.”

The owl hooted indignantly and pecked Seeker's ear none-too-friendly.

“Ouch! What was that for?”

“That,” Ember remarked, fumbling with his robes, “was 'You're not just an April fool but an everyday fool' in owl speech. This is no prank.”

“Oh, stop it already. It's getting ridiculous.” Seeker rubbed the attacked ear and glared at Ember.

“You are ridiculous. Seeker, this is real!” Half huffed exasperatedly and rolled his eyes. “BraveHeart, do you think you could make us some masks for tonight?”

The addressee's head snapped towards the group, eyes beaming. “Absolutely!” He had to shout, since he was currently several feet away, telling other Hunt members that his good friend Seeker got an invitation to one of the moss folk's famous masquerade balls and wasn't that just awesome.

“Er, so... this is a legit thing? The ball?” Seeker carefully ventured.

“Yep, totally,” Half nodded.

And that was that.

The game forgotten, Half and Ember disappeared somewhere to do who-knew-what which left Seeker with the task of looking after the horses. They didn't really need all that much taking care of these days however, since there was a corner at the edge of the forest where food was provided by the moss folk to feed the whole herd of Hunt horses.

So Seeker found himself wandering back to the gang's camp fire after having petted Lightning for a bit (though Lightning had seemed to be far more interested in munching on some of the left-over feathers still sticking to Seeker's wardrobe).

The fire was already lit, with Scoffer curled around Dreamer to one side of BraveHeart who was sedulously working on painting onto four masks of different shapes.

“Where did you get those?” Seeker sat down next to the busy artist, startling the latter.

“Oh, er, these are my back-ups.” BraveHeart held one out for the other boy to inspect. “What do you think about this one for you?”

Seeker looked at the mask in his hands: It showed a lush, sun-flooded forest, not unlike their current surroundings.

“I thought the green would bring out your eyes,” BraveHeart explained, looking nervous.

“It's beautiful, B, thank you.” Seeker put the mask on. It fit well. “I didn't realise you could paint like this. I guess I just assumed your own mask was painted by... someone else.”

The tiny boy smiled gently, while putting the finishing touches on a flame-covered mask that was certainly meant for Ember. “I simply like to capture what I see on a medium that I can carry around with me. Does that sound weird?”

“To want something to hold on to? No, not weird at all.” Seeker reached for a drying, garishly coloured mask that had 'Half' written all over it. “I have been wondering though: Why do you wear a mask all the time?”

The hand with the brush paused mid-air and BraveHeart glanced at Seeker, then quickly looked away. “I rather see than be seen; even though it doesn't seem like it with me being constantly so loud,” he mumbled under his breath. “Not very brave at all, I know. But I... I can't really explain it, but I feel like I need to hide because there are bad people out there who want to hurt me for I'm not how they want me to be.” He gave a humourless laugh. “Yes, I'm aware that's not the case, but it's still... I can't just turn it off. I feel like this might have something to do with my life, when I still lived, you know? Anyway, this,” he touched his own landscape-mask, “is my protection.”

“It's also a wall between us,” Seeker said quietly.

They sat in silence for a while, between them only the crackling of the fire and Scoffer's snoring.

Seeker was lost in thought, staring into the flames when the others finally came back.

He, too, had something to hold on to, even though he wasn't quite sure what it meant to him. The handkerchief with the embroidered D wandered from one hand to the other. D. D like... like what? Why was it, his heart clenched when he looked at it and why–

“Well?! What do you lowbrows think? Is this a dress or what?” Wolfe paraded her borrowed pearl tulle dress like a model on the catwalk. The fine layers of her garment were billowing in a light breeze.

“Wo-how!” Half wolf-whistled at Wolfe. “Yeah! That's my girl!”

Ember, who had somehow managed to find some clothing, snickered and Seeker sneered. He was about to mock the ginger for his slip-up (his girl, as if) when Wolfe let herself be pulled into a kiss by Half. Er, okay?

The kiss, first almost chaste but quickly passionate, went on and on, while BraveHeart had an attack of giggles, Ember goggled and Seeker wondered whether someone had hit him on the head unnoticed. Half and Wolfe were bickering more often than not, when did that turn into week-long public snogging sessions?

Seeker cleared his throat. “Ahem, so, er, how long has this been going on then?”

For an endless moment the couple didn't appear to have listened, but then they pulled apart, hair wild and cheeks flushed.

Half grinned like a lottery winner. “No time like the present.”

“Wait, you mean, this was your first kiss?” Seeker screeched disbelievingly.

“I always had a thing for redheads,” Wolfe remarked, not taking her eyes off Half's face. “Let's go, lover, I want to dance with you!”

Hand in hand they rushed ahead, leaving the three boys standing and staring after them.

“Well, that was something,” Seeker rasped, scratching his neck.

“What exactly was that though? I don't get it,” said Ember, complete confusion on his face. “Are they like a thing now?”

“They totally are, meep! I'm so excited! Isn't this great?” BraveHeart bounced on his heels, but then his expression suddenly changed to determination. “And I'm going to do what I want, too. At least for one night.” With a flowing movement, he ripped off his mask. “This is a masquerade ball after all, where you don't show your face the way you normally do. I'm going maskless tonight.”

Well, there must have been something in the late supper, because people were behaving strangely all around. Still, Seeker smiled. “Bare face looks good on you, BravestHeart.”

The tiny boy glowed with pride at the nickname and puffed out his chest. “Shall we, then?”

Forth they went to the moss folk clearing where they were greeted by unearthly music and floating lights and laughter. Hunt people and moss folk alike were moving to the melody. Above them all, the snowflakes were dancing at their own pace, swirling, so fragile as they floated through the midnight air, reflecting a thousand shimmers onto the spirit dancers.

“Breathtaking – just like you,” Half purred, eyes glued to Wolfe's face with a love-struck expression.

“Mate, can you be more cheesy?” Seeker chuckled and elbowed him playfully.

“We should just find you a partner as well, jester. How about that girl over there or that guy in the hat?” Wolfe pointed.

“No, I'm good. I...” already have someone? But he didn't say that out loud. He wasn't sure himself where that thought had come from.

Later, while he was dancing with one person or the other, Seeker felt as though he was in a dream and he wondered what the longing deep down in his stomach could mean – the longing to dance with somebody who loved him – and whether he would ever have it. Although, some part of him whispered that maybe once he had indeed had it. Yet the quiet voice was drowned out by the atmosphere of the celebrations which lasted well into the early hours of the next day.

***

Spring turned into summer and Holfe fought and made up on a daily basis.

While the woods around them were green and full of life, the base camp at Holle's Pond continued to be under a permanent layer of clouds, the ground covered with powdery snow.

Seeker had long got used to the perennial white and also to the fact that Hunt magic kept them warm – and that living with Half meant being hit with the icy substance every other day.

As far as news went, Berchthold hadn't come back from his stagout. Things at The Hunt were one big endlessly continuing party. All days were filled with fun and mirth.

It was one early afternoon in June as Seeker was absent-mindedly playing with the D-handkerchief. He had taken to wearing it on his wrist next to his Hunt bracelet, of which half of the knots were white and half red by now.

He knew what the red knots meant, but truthfully, he wasn't that afraid of dying anymore. Here in The Hunt, it wouldn't change anything for him. Seeker sometimes wondered why he had ever made a fuss about this. He was happy... and yet, there was a part of him (that he deliberately ignored) that constantly whispered of other things, of something more, out there.

His thoughts were aimlessly wandering, when his head suddenly snapped up, confusion written on his face. Something had occurred to him.

“Say... when we first met, didn't you tell me The Hunt had picked you up only a few months before me?” he spoke to no one in particular.

“Mhm? Yeah, that's right,” responded Wolfe sluggishly. She was sitting with her legs crossed and eyes closed while Half was trying to braid some new daffodils into her hair (emphasis on trying – Seeker already knew this would end in another argument).

“Why are you asking?” BraveHeart lay on his stomach, his mask riding on top of his mouse-brown hair. While he couldn't let go of the mask completely, there were more and more times when he openly showed his face. Seeker couldn't be prouder.

At the moment BraveHeart was sketching Ember and Scoffer who were both sleeping soundly, curled on either side around the tiny form of Dreamer. The baby was clutching Seeker's Somewhen teddy bear that he had picked up the night Dreamer had joined them. Seeker had thought it a nice gesture to give the little girl something from her home country.

“I was just thinking: How is that possible?” Seeker wondered.

Half, face screwed up in concentration, didn't look up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean: How could you have arrived at The Hunt only a few months before me if The Hunt only rides during Yuletide? Or did you insinuate, you joined the winter before I came?” That would have been a weird way to phrase it then though. After all, a year was a year and not a few months.

“Ah, that?” Wolfe opened one eye and shot him a look, before closing it again. “Berchthold.”

Seeker huffed. “Gosh, Wolfe, you know how I detest well-articulated answers that make sense. Please don't bore me with needless details.”

BraveHeart chuckled at that.

“What my duck meant to say was that sometimes during non-wintery seasons when Berchthold is out alone on his solitary ride, he picks up lost souls on the way and brings them to The Hunt; which is what happened to us,” Half offered, hairpins between his lips.

Seeker tilted his head. Aha. Yeah, that actually made sense. After all, there were some indecently underdressed riders that couldn't possibly have been picked up during winter time. Okay, one mystery solved.

Wolfe rolled her eyes. “Yes, that is what I meant. But call me your 'duck' again and I'll throw you into Holle's Pond.”

Half's face went pale and Wolfe also suddenly looked shocked.

“Sorry! That was a joke!” she squeaked.

Seeker looked from one to the other. “What's the problem? You can't swim or what?”

“Being able to swim won't help you in there,” Half said darkly and lackadaisically accepted an apologetic kiss on the cheek from Wolfe.

Eyeing the tranquil pond with its midnight blue water, its ever-present soft bell chimes and its gentle Somewhen Glow, Seeker couldn't help but be confused. “I don't get it.”

“Well, it's really not that difficult, Seeker, it's Holle's, as in, it belongs to Perchta” the redhead grumbled and dropped the same strand of hair for the third time.

“Yes, and?” Seeker shot back irritably. Of course he knew that the body of water was Holle's since a) her 'house', Spillalutsche's Stone, was standing right at the bank and b) the bloody pond was named after her.

Wolfe turned her head that was mounted with a hilarious hairdo à la Half. “And the pond is a bottomless pit! Oh, what else? Just the entrance to the realm of the dead, no biggie. Seeker, really, do you never pay attention when the riders talk?”

That was severely unfair. Of course Seeker had listened. He heard so many wondrous stories at The Hunt that he never knew which were true and which were made-up. Yet this one was new to him and he shuddered involuntarily.

“I thought we – you – are the dead.”

“It's a bit more complicated than that. You must know, among other things, Perchta is the guardian of crossroads. While most members of The Hunt really are deceased, we are, for one reason or the other, not yet ready to let go of this world. But people out there die and when they do, they cross over into the netherworld. Or at least that's how we understand it,” she looked at the boys for reinforcement and was graced with nods.

“And that,” Half took over, pointing at Holle's Pond, “is the entry. They say if you get real close to the edge, inside you can see a silver castle surrounded by a garden full of flowers, fruit and vegetables. Fun fact, one part of that actually belongs to Berchthold. He has his herbs garden down there. But aside from him and Holle, no one can enter the pond. That is, if you want to come out again: Anyone falling into the water will travel to the underworld immediately. So, I wouldn't recommend taking a swim.”

That explained the fact that Seeker had never seen anyone get too close to the pond. Only Holle once, one very early morning, when she, stark naked and somewhat youthful looking, had dove in. He had been wondering about that (and tried to scrub the picture from his brain ever since).

Still, Seeker cocked his head, pondering. “Okay. But here's something that doesn't quite add up. I think I never told you this but actually, Holle's Pond is a Somewhen Thing for me. How can that be if it means certain death and I'm still alive?”

“Maybe she pulled you in as a child,” Half grinned, sobering quickly with a thump to his stomach by Wolfe's elbow. “Kidding. That's just a made-up legend. You know, because people always want to see the bad in The Hunt they say that Perchta is a forest demon who spirits children away into her pond and once they come out, depending on their character, they are either darlings of fortune or changelings.”

“Then she must have taken you, Mr. Changeling,” Wolfe huffed and Half threw her puckered air kisses. She rolled her eyes and turned to Seeker who looked sceptical. “It's really just a story parents thought of to explain puberty, I guess.” She shrugged.

Seeker frowned. “That still doesn't explain why Holle's Pond glows for me though.”

“Ohhh,” BraveHeart, who had only been listening with half an ear until then, suddenly looked up excitedly. “Maybe you've seen the missing piece?! How awesome is that?”

“What missing piece?”

“Well, rumour has it that some Sunday Children, that is magic doers, once stole a piece of Holle's Pond and spelt it into a stone archway.” With the backside of his brush, the artist drew an ancient looking archway with a ragged veil into the soil. “But they couldn't control its power and everyone walking through the archway never came back, so they hid it in a secret place.”

BraveHeart's eyes were sparkling at the thought, but Seeker snorted. “Yeahhhhh, sure. And trees grow upside-down. Look here, B, with all due respect to your enthusiasm: This story sounds totally fishy. If Holle's Pond is really the door to the netherworld and she is as mighty as she appears to be, then she would never have allowed people to steal a piece of it.”

“Unless she had reasons to. Perchta can be odd at times,” Wolfe mused. “Maybe she thought it funny.”

Seeker raised an eyebrow. ‘At times’ was a bit of an understatement.

“Well. I gotta say I agree with our sceptic on this one,” Half hummed, putting finishing touches on Wolfe's hairdo. “That archway tale seems too far fetched.”

“Hmpf!” pouted BraveHeart and turned his focus back to his sketch of the Ember-bundle.

“People do believe the wildest stories, don't they? The power of imagination is so strong in some, even living humans sometimes make it to the pond,” Wolfe shrugged, cringing as her hands carefully felt for Half's masterpiece on her head.

That was news to Seeker. “They do? How come?”

“Oh, that's because – okay, let me start somewhere else: Some call moss folk Rilpen or Saligen, some nymphs and some even fae, believing they are fairies. But do you know what they really are?” Half asked, sitting down next to his girlfriend and taking her hand.

Seeker frowned. What did the redhead mean: What they were? “No?”

“We told you that Perchta is kind of their 'mother', right?”

Seeker nodded.

“So they are children. Dead children. Or to be precise, unborn children.”

Huh, how did the conversation suddenly turn so dark? Seeker suppressed a shudder. Talking about the underworld was one thing, somewhat adventurous, but this?

“I know what you're thinking.” Wolfe patted Seeker's knee. “But it's a good thing, really.”

“How can dead children be a good thing?” Uh oh, Seeker's voice had grown loud. He should work on his temper.

The girl smiled sadly. “Obviously not the fact that they had to die before their time. But look at it this way: Here, as moss folk, with fun-loving riders of The Wild Hunt as companions, they can play to their hearts' content until they are ready to enter Holle's Pond and be reborn. In a way, Perchta gives them the life they couldn't live out there. That's the reason they have a special connection to her and sometimes know things we others don't. Anyway, occasionally women who want to get pregnant but can't on their own, come here to the pond and offer gold or spindles of homespun yarn to Perchta to ask her for her blessing. And sometimes Perchta answers their prayers and goes into the pond to get a soul that is all set to be born anew and 'gives' it to the mothers-to-be. Probably because these women must really mean it if they made it here even though this area is protected by Hunt magic. But you know what they say: Nothing's stronger than a mother's love.”

“Yeah, that's right,” BraveHeart repeated, trying to sound wise, “love is the most powerful connection.”

“Oh, don't we know it!” Half leered and decided to tip Wolfe over. She squealed and trashed as he pressed fervent kisses onto her face.

Their noise woke up Ember and he growled something about 'idiot couples' as he rolled over to sleep some more only to be shaken and forced to look at his sketch by an overzealous BraveHeart.

They were all but back to normal, however Seeker wasn't ready to let go of the conversation just yet. “What about Dreamer then?” he almost yelled over the carefree commotion.

“What about her? Get off, you oaf!” Wolfe panted, sitting up.

“Why is she not a moss person?”

“Because she did not die unborn?” duh-d Half, hair sticking up in wild angles. “Because she's still alive?”

Right, they had talked about that before. Seeker, while not being dead, was slowly getting there with the knots of his bracelet turning red, Dreamer's bracelet however was still as pristine white today as it had been the day they had picked her up. That was because their circumstances were different.

“Yes, but you said she will most probably never wake up again. Wouldn't it be better for her if she, you know, were reborn?” He indicated vaguely towards Holle's Pond.

“Seeker!” Wolfe shrieked, all glee draining from her face. “That would equal her dying! How could you say something like that?”

Funny how the tables had turned.

Of course she was right and Seeker himself felt unsure about his next words, but he also thought that he should explain himself: “It's kind of the same thing as with The Beginning. You said it's not The End. Don't get me wrong, I don't want her dead or anything. I just want something for her, because, let's be real, the way she is now, there is nothing for her. Ever. That's why I was thinking, maybe a new life would do her better than this half-life she sleeps away.”

There was a heavy silence as the gang considered this.

Finally, Ember spoke, his voice low and dangerous: “Try touching her and I'll break your arms.” Scoffer growled agreement as a warning.

The others exchanged glances. Maybe it was best to drop this topic for now. When it came to Dreamer, Ember was best not to be trifled with.

Seeker shrugged. What did it matter? After all, for all they knew, they had eternity to talk about this. “Anyone up for a round of ninepins?”

***

“Seeker, Seeker, wake up!”

Grumbling, Seeker rolled over to get away from the hand shaking his shoulder.

“Get up!” BraveHeart insisted. “You'll miss it!”

“Misat?” Seeker slurred. He'd been in such a nice dream. He couldn't remember the details, but someone had been singing to him softly in words he hadn't been able to understand but had known they meant love.

“Frigg is driving out to bless the harvest. It's about time too, after all it's already the end of July.” Wolfe dusted off her dress from powdery snow and turned around. “Ember, should we have Dreamer blessed as Frigg goes by?”

Ember mumbled agreement, but Seeker was not all awake yet. He yawned. “Who is Frigg?”

“Perchta of course. Though today she's Frigg. Now get up or you're really going to miss it.” Half pulled him up.

Seeker shivered. As far as he could tell it was way past midnight but hours till sunrise. He shuffled closer to BraveHeart; it was chilly, even for Hunt standards, as it was snowing softly.

Frigg. Seeker growled. Perchta. Dormarth. Holle. Couldn't that woman keep one name like every other person? Maybe he should just call her Rolf indefinitely and be done with it.

“Okay, what exactly is happening now?” Seeker asked, blinking through the twilight cast by last bits of camp fire embers.

“Just watch.” Wolfe nudged his shoulder and indicated towards Holle's dwelling Spillalutsche's Stone, which was as always bathed in the soft gleam of seven overhead-flowing little lights. From there Holle emerged as they waited, her white dress contrasting with the dark of the night.

Seeker noticed that seemingly all of The Hunt were up at this ungodly hour to witness the spectacle – whatever it was.

Sure enough, out of Holle's Pond rolled a magnificent golden chariot onto the clearing. Seeker gaped. First he thought the vehicle moved on its own but as soon as he had blinked once, he knew better: Harnessed in front of the wagon were two horses, two oxen, two cows, two lynxes and two white cats – in that order – preceded by twenty-four Hunt dogs and a single eagle owl. However they were only there for the time of the fluttering of his eyelids. There and gone in a tick.

“Er, Ember do you also see those random animals in front of the chariot?” Seeker asked the big guy, while rapidly blinking to perceive the zoo better.

“Yeah,” Ember grunted and rubbed his flat nose. “Those are Frigg's daughters.”

“Come again?”

“Ah, we just call them that. They are not really her daughters... I think,” Half, arm around Wolfe, explained. “Rumour has it she's still a virgin anyway.” He snickered. “I mean, that I can believe, who'd want to hit that?”

Ember and BraveHeart joined in his tittering and Seeker hid a grin.

Wolfe poked the redhead. “You're so rude. She's our benefactor after all, show a bit of respect!”

“Oh, I'll show her all the respect in the world if she doesn't show me anything at all,” Half laughed and ducked away as his girlfriend started hitting him lightly.

“Right, so, why are her 'daughters' invisible nine tenth of the time?”

“No idea, man,” Ember shrugged.

Seeker nodded. Just another of the many unsolved mysteries of The Hunt. That didn't faze him anymore.

Meanwhile Holle, no, Frigg today, had climbed into the chariot, taking the reins. The wagon was just big enough for one person to stand in, but had quaint things dangling on its sides: an empty basket and boxes tied with string, as well as what looked like a spear and a sceptre.

The crone held up a hand and the murmuring of the crowd stopped. “Hunters! I'm off to bless the harvest on the fields and in the orchards. I'll be back. Don't do anything too stupid while I'm gone.” Seeker had the sudden weird feeling that she was looking directly at him. “Bless you all!”

With that she pulled up a hood over her cow horns and clicked her tongue which caused the wagon to gain momentum.

As the odd lady sped away, Seeker noticed a horse's tail sticking out from under her billowing hem. Huh. Had she always had that?

The moment she was out of sight, a clamour of cheers broke out among The Hunt. Okay, what now?

“Frigg is gone – you know what that means?” BraveHeart screamed, jumping up and down.

“Sunshine!” Wolfe squealed.

“No more snow!” rejoiced Half.

“Sunburn. And rain,” muttered Ember, but no one paid him attention, aside from Scoffer who was always on his heels.

Seeker laughed, infected by the sudden swing to happy mood. “What is all that about?”

“Oh, you don't know yet, Seeker, do you? Just wait and see, it's like super!” BraveHeart beamed and took Wolfe's hands to dance in a tight circle where they were shortly joined by Half.

“The sky,” said Ember dryly and shifted Dreamer in his arms. “Look up.”

Indeed. There was the night sky. It was of a deep endless blue and dotted with countless tiny lights, no clouds in sight.

Look at the stars.

He hadn't forgotten about the advice. It just had turned out pretty much impossible to heed, as Seeker had to find out that the sky was barely to be seen between the thick branches of the forest trees and normally a cloud was covering the whole of the encampment's clearing at Holle's Pond.

“Don't know what they're all on about. I'm going back to sleep.” With that Ember turned around and trudged off.

“The sky above The Hunt is only freely visible when neither of its leaders are present.” Seeker heard a woman dressed in a nun's habit say, addressing a mixed group to his right. “Now, who wants to learn about constellations?”

'I do,' he thought and went to sit with them.

The nun was a good storyteller. Seeker found himself swooning over the sad love story of Vega and Altair,^[3] the tragically separated lovers, and he was just about to name them his favourite, when the woman pointed at another group of stars: “And this is Draco, the dragon constellation. It...”

Blood rushed in Seeker's ears so loudly he felt like he was drowning in the sound.

Draco, Draco, Draco...

The boy at the barn. The boy with the storm eyes. The boy, Seeker had been so desperately trying to go back to.

He felt dizzy, the world started spinning.

His plans to leave The Hunt. His determination to go back to his alive life.

He was getting sick.

The tea Half had given him. Oh God.

“Half,” he croaked. Somehow not all there, he pushed himself up, swaying dangerously as he made his way towards the people he had thought his friends. Anger burnt inside him.

“HALF! You bloody bastard!” Seeker didn't wait for the addressee to react, but lunged forward and threw himself at the redhead, starting to pummel him.

“What the–? Stop it!” Half tried to shield his face but he had no chance against Seeker's seething rage.

Only with the pooled forces of shocked Wolfe, BraveHeart and Ember did they manage to pull Seeker off Half.

“Let me go! You don't know what he did! He poisoned me! Half poisoned me!” Seeker shrieked, fighting the grips on his arms and shoulders.

“It was only for your own good!” Half shouted back, rubbing his face, ugly blotches appearing on his cheeks. “You should thank me!”

“Thank you? Let me go! Fuck it!” Seeker struggled fruitlessly, tears of outrage over the backstabbing springing to his eyes . “You made me forget about what little I had left of my life! You made me forget about Draco! How could you do this to me?”

“He didn't mean any harm, Seeker. Please, just hear him out,” Wolfe pleaded, but that only made him more livid.

He rounded at the girl. “Did you know?” She winced and Seeker stared at her and then at the others, disbelievingly. “Did you all know?” The betrayal hurt more than any of the punches Half had got in. Seeker's heart turned black. “I thought you were my friends,” he said bitterly. “To hell with you all. I'm out of here.”

Seeker shook the hands off and started running, faster than he'd ever run, deep into the forest, towards the real world.

He heard them call after him (“You can't leave The Hunt!”), but he didn't look back. He was done with them, once and for all.

***

Seeker woke with a start. For a moment he was disoriented, but then he remembered. Right, he had left The Hunt and run as deep into the woods as his feet would carry him. Then fog had come up. He hadn't been able to see his own hand before his eyes, yet he had walked on and on until exhaustion had overcome him and he had curled up underneath a tree, falling asleep on the spot.

Now, there were voices in the air.

“Hashtag Windsor, hashtag no filter. A selfie with the Long Walk next?”

Seeker blinked uncomprehendingly at the two sparsely clad young women standing at an arm's length in front of him in the bright sunlight.

They were not paying him any attention. Instead they did weird postures while holding an arm up high, grinning at it like lunatics.

Pushing himself off the floor, Seeker groaned in pain. Not only had sleeping uncomfortably done things to his back but also were the few places Half's punches had hit Seeker giving off dull aches.

“Excuse me,” he ventured.

The women walked away.

“Hey, I just want to ask you something!” Seeker yelled after them.

They ignored him. How rude!

“Daddy, Daddy, look at the horsey!” A little boy ran up to Seeker and stared wide-eyed at something above his head.

When Seeker turned to look, he found that what he had thought to be a tree he had been sleeping under, was indeed a disproportional, green-tinged statue of a man pointing ahead, riding on a horse. Seeker's gaze followed the outstretched hand and he became aware of a long straight trail framed by tree lines on both sides that was populated by a steady stream of strolling people. There were real, human people – amazing!

“Hi there, can you tell me where we are?” Seeker squatted down to talk to the boy, but the kid just bounced in excitement and put all his fingers at once into his mouth. “I guess you're not supposed to talk to strangers. But I just need to know–”

“What did we say? Don't run on ahead!” A man pushing a pram had huffed up the little hill they were currently standing on.

“Oh, hello, sir, could you tell me where this is?” Seeker tried, but the man had only eyes for his son.

“If you can't stay close to me, we have to walk holding hands.”

“No!” The boy stamped his foot.

“Erm, sorry to interrupt, but I just need–”

“Young man, I see an early bedtime in your future if you don't listen,” the man said sternly. “Or do you want me to tell Mummy?”

“EXCUSE ME!” Seeker felt like a berk for shouting, but it was unnerving how both of them acted as if he weren't there.

“...okay, Daddy.” The boy offered his father a drooled-on hand. Neither of the two even glanced at Seeker.

A soft breeze carried hot air and laughter up the hill. Seeker felt the world tremble, just a bit.

“Can you not hear me?” He tentatively placed a hand on the man's upper arm and got exactly zero reaction. “Don't you feel this?” He tried to squeeze, but it was as if there were a thin layer of protection between them making it impossible for Seeker to truly connect with the man.

The baby in the pram gurgled happily as Seeker's hope shattered.

He had left Dreamer who he had sworn to protect (even though Ember would take care of her for sure). He had left his friends (well, his backstabbers) at The Hunt to be free and go back to his life, but... The truth hit him like a ton of bricks: No one here was able to see, hear or feel him. There was nothing for him out in the world. And nothing with The Hunt, he realised bitterly.

Seeker slumped down at the bottom of the statue and just sat there, while people came and went, like waves at the shore.

It was around noon when the heat of the sun finally triggered him to get up. After a good sulk, he felt better now and was ready to at least try to find someone to communicate with.

He walked down the trail, chatting up every person coming his way, but to no avail. He tried writing messages in the sand, even experimented with noting something down on an old man's newspaper, but nope, no luck. When he came across a lake, he tested if someone noticed water patterns he created. He whispered, shouted, serenaded the park walkers – even tried expressionist dance – but the only reaction he ever got was complete ignorance.

As frustrating as this was, things got worse when he realised, he couldn't really pick up anything, which meant that although he was obviously hidden by Hunt magic, he couldn't just snatch a few bits of fish and chips from passers-by and thus, in the afternoon, on top of everything, Seeker grew terribly hungry.

At least he found out from studying an area map that he was at Windsor Great Park.^[2] But that was barely anything.

Walking around, grabbing for food and attention in turn, he didn't notice he had reached the end of the park area until he – THUD – walked face-first into something.

“What the hell?” Seeker rubbed his forehead and rectified his glasses.

There was nothing there. How curious. He carefully reached forward and his fingertips were met with an invisible resistance. With his hands he followed what seemed to be a wall, stretching out to both sides. It went down to the ground and as high up as he could jump. Park visitors were walking through the barrier without a problem, but Seeker couldn't manage, even as he threw his whole body weight against the obstacle.

So, that's what they had meant. He literally was unable to leave The Hunt behind, he couldn't even get out of the area.

Seeker screamed his disappointment and frustration at the next few walkers (did sweet FA) and then decided to trace the boundary as far as he could.

One hand on the wall, Seeker walked through some underbrush, when suddenly there was a hiss.

“Watch where you're going, Mugginsss!”

Seeker looked left and right but couldn't make out anyone.

“Down here, you heathen.”

Squinting at the ground, Seeker gave a surprised squeak and quickly backed away. There, in front of him, was a barred grass snake unfurling from what seemed to have been an afternoon nap.

“Sorry! I didn't see you there!”

“Well, obviously,” the snake sniffed. “You big folksss alwaysss think you're too good to look down. Pah. Humansss.”

Seeker started. “You... you can see me?”

“Of course. I'm not asss blind as you. Now shoo, you are annoying.”

Certainly were there smarter things to do than to anger a teeth-armed wild animal, but the exhilaration of being seen and heard was enough to have Seeker throw all caution to the wind and crouch down. “Sorry again. It'sss just that you're the first, er, being that can hear me. I'm Seeker by the way.”

“And I'm not interested. Bugger off!”

Seeker ignored that. “I didn't even know snakesss could talk.”

“What ignorance! Snakesss are masterful speakersss. It'sss simply that your kind isss normally too dense to understand. Like you, really: Go. Away.”

“But nobody else even knowsss I'm there due to The Wild Hunt'sss magic – I'm one of the ridersss, you know, but I ran off. Long story. Anyway, how isss it possible you can see me?”

Clearly unfazed, the snake hissed impatiently and started slithering away, yet paused to casually remark: “You humansss are very thick. That which you don't value, you take no trouble to comprehend. You consider the waysss of snakesss far beneath your notice. Well, let me tell you this, Huntsman: Human magic worksss differently on snakesss and so doesss Hunt magic. Hmpf.”

That actually made a lot of sense.

Seeker followed the reptile. “Right, you are right. Sorry I wasss ignorant, but could you do me a favour maybe? Tell other people, humansss, I'm here? That I need help?”

The snake stopped in its tracks and peered up at Seeker. “A) I cannot, since most of your kind are too deaf to understand snake speech and b) I don't want to. Leave me alone already or I'll bite you, ssssss!” It bared its teeth threateningly.

Seeker retreated, but not far, he was desperate after all. “Please, just help me! No one else can and I just, I just want to go back to my life and see Draco again!”

The snake, pose ready to strike, paused. “...Draco? A snake?”

“What? No, he'sss a human,” Seeker blinked and quickly added, “but he'sss very snake-like. Very snakey.”

His interlocutor flicked its tail. “Oh well then. For a namesake.” A pause.“You may call me Anguisss, that meansss dragon. Come along now, helplessss human.”

Seeker, who could hardly believe his luck, stumbled after Anguis as they made their way towards the more populated park areas.

It was true that Seeker wanted to return to his former life, whatever that entailed, but the main reason he'd continuously tried to get someone's attention was the prospect of seeing Barn Boy again.

Yes, it had taken Seeker far too long to put it together, but when he finally got it, the truth had been so blatantly clear that he wondered how he had ever missed it in the first place: the D on his handkerchief, the dragon-form The Beginning took for him, the Draco constellation and the name called by someone at the barn...

Look at the stars. The moss person must have known it somehow. Figured, after all, they saw things from Holle's perspective.

Seeker tugged at the handkerchief around his wrist.

If The Beginning showed his deepest desire then Seeker had to keep going... because Draco was the reason.

Still deep in thought, Seeker entered a lively park area, following Anguis.

“Well, here we are, now what?” The male snake sounded very annoyed already and they hadn't even started trying to get anyone to notice them yet.

“Now we improvise.”

***

They had been at it for hours and none of the park visitors got it. Sure, some pointed at Anguis and some even screamed, but no one looked hard enough to understand the motion patterns as means of communication.

In the late afternoon, Seeker dropped onto a bench on a shaded side path. It was deserted aside from the two of them.

“I don't know what else to do,” he sighed and Anguis at his feet nodded.

“Well, hullo there.” Seeker's head snapped up. Standing right in front of him was the dragon boy, sunlight gleaming on his blond hair like a halo. He smiled. “Are you lost?”

“You can see me,” Seeker whispered breathlessly. It was impossible. The one person he had wished to meet most in the world had suddenly appeared before his very eyes.

“Weird, in the past, a snake would have made me think of Slytherin, now it only reminds me of him... all I do these days is think about him,” the apparition said and Seeker finally shook out of his reverie. Of course the other boy was talking to Anguis.

The newcomer sighed and sat down on the bench, right next to Seeker. “He can speak with your kind, you know? He's a Parselmouth,” said the blond boy, looking down at the serpent.

“Do something!” Seeker hissed at Anguis. “Thisss is my Draco. I think he'sss talking about me. Tell him I'm here!” Some part of Seeker clocked the word 'Parselmouth' though, for later investigation.

The reptile shot Seeker an arrogant look and made an eight-figure with its body. “Thisss isss snake code for 'attendansss'.”

“Well, it bloody doesn't work now, doesss it?” Seeker looked helplessly between the snake and the human.

“Ha, look at me, talking to a snake,” laughed the latter, a badge with weird writing on it glinting on his chest in the sunlight.

“I am looking at you,” Seeker said quietly, taking in the other's profile. “Draco.” The name was still foreign on his lips.

Draco paused for a second and Seeker held his breath.

Then the dragon boy's face softened. “Is it crazy that he's always on my mind? Even before... See, he got himself kidnapped by The Wild Hunt and now I have to clean up his mess and look for him. It's driving me nuts because I finally know what to do to get him freed, but I can't bloody find him. And all it would take is calling his name once. That's it! Easy enough one should think, but no~, he has to be unlocatable.”

Seeker's heart contracted. “I'm right here and... I think about you too. All the time. At least when I remember... it's complicated, but still – I do, okay? So,” he tentatively put a hand on Draco's thigh knowing fully well the other boy wouldn't feel it, “could you just do it? Call my name.”

Birds were chirping, the air was pleasantly warm and Seeker waited, waited, waited.

“Not that I understand human speech, but whatever you're saying isn't getting through to him. He'sss not doing anything,” remarked Anguis drily and yawned.

“Shut up! He will. Draco, listen to me: What's my name? Say my name!”

But Draco stayed quiet, clearly pondering on something. Bloody hell.

Seeker nearly jumped out of his skin from surprise as Draco absent-mindedly put his hand on top of Seeker's hand. Impossible. He couldn't know! Or could he?

There was no chance to grab Draco's hand back, the Hunt's magic separated them just enough to prevent that and yet, if Seeker squeezed his eyes shut he could pretend they were holding hands. This should count for something.

“Draco. Please, say my name,” Seeker pleaded. It would be so easy. After all this fruitless trying today.

“Do you know what date it is? Right, how could you: It's July 31st, his birthday. He's nineteen years old today. Imagine that. Next year I'll know him almost half my life...”

Seeker blinked, momentarily distracted. “It'sss my birthday,” he told his snakey companion.

“What'sss a birthday?” Anguis drawled lazily, seemingly dozing.

“It'sss the day a person was born on,” answered Seeker distractedly while watching Draco pulling out a small stick from his pocket. It looked a bit like the one Seeker had found in the back pocket of his own trousers. He had often thought about throwing it out, but it had such a nice length, just right for roasting marshmallows on. So he'd kept it.

“Ah, yesss, of course you would call it that. We call it hatchday, obviously.” The snake flicked his tail.

Seeker's eyes went big as saucers when Draco started doing magic (what else could it be?), burning little doodles in the sand – a lightning bolt, round glasses, a heart...

Right, so Draco was a Sunday Child, too, capable of magic, cool and– Seeker choked. Was that a heart?

The other boy seemed to have a similar reaction as he went bright pink and started stuttering: “It's not– I'm not– Don't you dare think that I would–”

Anguis gave Seeker a knowing look. “Thisss one likesss you.”

“No, he doesn't! He just, he just–” Seeker floundered.

“I think I might have feelings for him.” Draco swallowed.

Seeker went completely still, staring at him. “You do?” Of course there was no answer.

“Do you think he'll come back with me once I find him?” Draco's voice was tight. “What if he wants to stay with The Hunt? For all I found out they are a rather free bunch. Maybe he likes that... He... he's a good guy. That makes it hard on him sometimes. He forgives everyone eventually, even me. But not himself, I think. Even though he didn't do anything wrong, really. But sometimes I wonder if it could be that The Hunt took him because he wanted to be taken, as punishment or something.”

Seeker paled, shaken by the words. Was it possible? Hadn't Half said something along these lines as well? What if it really had been Seeker's own fault he had had to go with The Hunt? But one thing was certain: “I will come back. I want to, God, Draco, I want to. So just say my name and we can go right now, yeah? Once will do. Come on!”

But Draco instead ran a hand through his hair, his short sleeves revealing a tattoo on his left forearm. It was a skull with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue.

Seeker shivered, somehow this picture reminded him of the Jolly Roger from The Hunt's games. It made him uneasy, yet he was curious. A serpent for a tongue and he himself could speak to snakes, so was maybe this tattoo connected to him? Did Draco get a tattoo for him? Did he like him that much?

“I'll just have to make him then, right? After all, I'm not chasing storms all around the globe to come up empty-handed. I'll drag him back with me even if he's kicking and screaming. Yeah. Just you wait and see, I'll bring him next time, that's a promise.”

Draco apparently had made up his mind. Good then, because that's what Seeker wanted, too: to be freed.

He grinned, blushing. “You mean I will bring you. Oh and just so you know, I'm chasing a storm, too. Anyone ever tell you you have stormy eyesss?”

“That isss the worst pick-up line I've heard in my life,” contributed Anguis who was still dozing at Draco's feet. “Good fortune he can't hear you.”

Oops, had Seeker said the last bit in snake-speech? “Hey!” he protested, but it wasn't heartfelt. He was giddy. Draco was not giving up on him. Everything was going to be okay.

“Thanks for the talk. You're not a bad listener.” Draco got up. Uh oh. It had all been fun and games so far, running into Draco, here of all places, but now Seeker needed him to get real. How could one have a whole conversation about somebody without saying their name?

“Shit, Anguisss, do something! He'sss leaving!”

Anguis shot forward with the apparent idea of wrapping himself around the blond boy's leg, all while hissing a battle cry.

Draco quickly backed away. “Sorry!”

“No, you're making him leave even faster!” Seeker cried in despair.

“You do it then!” the snake snapped back.

They had no time for bickering though as Draco had decided to run for it.

“Dammit! Draco, wait up!”

Both boys were neck and neck until – whomp! – Seeker ran full-speed into an invisible obstacle. Again.

“Argh! What the–” His hands disbelievingly touched the magic wall. Oh no. This was a gate point to the area, here ran the border, which meant...

“You can't go any further, Huntsman. Thisss isss where your world endsss.” Anguis had caught up to them.

“No, no, NO! Draco, don't go! My name! Say my name!” Seeker pounded the division with his fists. “Please, take me with you!”

Draco hesitated for a moment.

“My name...” Seeker whispered, furious tears of disappointment running down his cheeks. “You can't leave me here...”

“I'll find you,” Draco said solemnly and disappeared into thin air.

Seeker slowly slid to the floor. Game over. “You better.”

Anguis soothingly curled around his ankles and Seeker absent-mindedly petted him, something the snake only allowed because he felt the boy's despair.

“He'sss such an idiot, Anguisss. Isss it too much work to call my name just once? Slowpoke! And did you hear how he talked about me? 'I have to clean up hisss messss' – yeah, right, well didn't do much of that today, did he? Tosser!” Seeker rubbed furiously at his eyes, then sighed deeply. “I bet we are fighting a lot.”

“Soundsss about right, with two troublemakersss like you,” Anguis agreed calmly and darted his tongue in and out when Seeker arched an eyebrow. “I mean, he wantsss to take on The Hunt for you and you run off from very dangerous ancient magic for him. Hotheadsss the both of you, yesss, lotsss of potential arguing ahead.”

Seeker snivelled. “You think there'sss going to be an 'ahead' for usss then?”

The snake took his time answering. “Well... that really dependsss on you, I presume.”

“But isn't he the one that needsss to find me again and call me by my name?” Seeker cocked his head questioningly.

“Sure, but that'll only work if you still can be found.” Anguis huffed in annoyance when Seeker only gave him a blank stare. “You are asss daft asss they come: Beingsss can't just leave The Wild Hunt without consequencesss, everyone knowsss that. Those who try end up thwarted (like those black flying skeleton horsesss) or... not at all.”

Seeker sat up in alertness. “What do you mean by 'not at all'?”

“To cease existing, disappear. You will soon feel it. Only Hunt magic held you together so far, but you left, so it will leave you and eventually you will leave indefinitely. It'sss the way thingsss are.”

Ice cold fear trickled down Seeker's back. He had been feeling increasingly faint since this morning, but he had thought that that had been because of his tries to get attention.

He stared at the snake. Impossible, no, it couldn't be that now that he had found a possible way back into his life, he was vanishing. If only he had known, if only he had listened...

A wave of sudden anger flooded him: anger directed at himself but also at others. “Why didn't you tell me thisss earlier?” he snarled.

“None of my businessss.”

Anguis was not wrong. Seeker deflated and swallowed. “Isss there... no way to stop thisss?”

“Stupid oaf! Of course there isss: Go back where you belong, back to The Hunt!” Anguis snapped, seemingly more upset at the prospect of Seeker's demise as he had let on.

Ah, so that was the price. Be with The Hunt or not at all. Very clever, Hunt magic.

“I don't know how,” Seeker confessed.

“How your kind survivesss isss beyond me, with those little brainsss you have,” Anguis shook his head. “Asss long asss you are still here, you are technically part of The Hunt, even if you don't want to be. Feel it inside you – it'll guide you back.”

That sounded doable. Seeker closed his eyes and tried focusing. He blocked out all distracting thoughts of Draco, Half's betrayal, his own fear and anger and finally, in the very last corner of his mind, he found a tiny glimmer of recognition. When he opened his eyes again, he knew where to go.

He got up, dusting his pants off. “Thank you, Anguisss, for everything.”

The snake eyed him thoughtfully. “Are you sure about thisss? You could also just... fade away. But in freedom. Better than The Hunt'sss slave forever.”

“Aw, so you do care!” Seeker attempted to touch Anguis' head but the snake evaded with a hiss. “But don't worry. It won't be forever. Draco will come and free me. He said so and I choose to believe him.” He grinned. “And once I'm out, we'll come visit you.”

“Muppet,” Anguis growled after him, as Seeker walked away. Then he yelled: “Better bring a snack, Seeker!”

“I will!” The boy waved goodbye over his shoulder.

***

Walking back into the fog, Seeker knew he was on the right way. Soon, he heard the familiar laughter and the clamour of The Hunt. It was blue hour and the world was tinged in fading residue of daylight, when Seeker finally stepped back onto the clearing at Holle's Pond.

The sight that greeted him was the usual chaos of bodies, camp fires and shenanigans and yet it was unusual as the normally omnipresent snow dust had melted, leaving the ground bare.

Seeker had had time to think on his way back here and he was still angry, but ready to face the truth. They deserved a chance to explain themselves and Seeker just needed to know.

BraveHeart, mask placed tightly on his face and shoulders hunched, poked gloomily at the flames around which the gang was sitting, uncharacteristically silent. On the side, Dreamer was sleeping in the hollow between Scoffer's curled up legs.

“Hello,” Seeker said evenly, stepping into their circle.

“Seeker!” the tiny boy squeaked and threw himself so vigorously into Seeker's arms that the latter stumbled a few steps back before he regained his footing. Only for a second though, for Wolfe barrelled into them right after, followed by Ember who enveloped all three of them in a bone-crushingly tight embrace.

“We were so worried!” Wolfe blubbered out into Seeker's shoulder. “You could have dissolved!”

“Yeah, okay, I missed you, too,” Seeker gasped. “Em, let off, I can't breath.”

“Sorry,” Ember said and loosened his grip, but did not let go completely.

“That's right, we're sorry, Seeker, really sorry,” Wolfe cried.

Seeker's gaze went to Half who was awkwardly standing to the side, looking torn. “I want to hear that from him.”

“I am sorry that we fought,” the redhead said slowly, his eyes hardening and a stubborn expression appearing on his face, “but I'm not sorry I gave you Berchthold's herbal tea.” Ire rose in Seeker as Half continued: “Because we're friends.”

“Some friend you are!” Seeker gnarled and extracted himself from the cluster of bodies. His hands were curling into fists. “You made me forget!”

“I did it to protect you!”

In front of Seeker's eyes danced little stars of fury. It took all of his self-restraint not to hit the ginger again. He took deep, deliberate breaths, then grunted out: “Explain.”

Half nodded solemnly. “Maybe we should sit.”

Without stopping his glowering, Seeker dropped down and folded his legs; the others followed suit.

Snowdrop landed on his shoulder and rubbed her head against his cheek. Seeker felt a pang of guilt that he had left the owl behind. He rubbed her head and whispered a quiet 'sorry', getting an affectionate hoot as reply.

“Okay, so, where do I start? When you first woke up with The Hunt, you couldn't remember anything, right? Well, the thing you don't know is that this is a two-way street: You forgot about your life, but the people that were in it forgot about you, too. It's not that common that witnesses get taken, but we had heard accounts, so we were aware of what that meant.” Half looked at Seeker with unsmiling eyes. “You wanted to go home – quite understandably – but we knew it was impossible. One can't leave The Hunt. If you do, you fade away. That's why we were so worried today. Good thinking to come back on your own.”

“Don't patronise me,” Seeker snapped.

“Right, sorry. The thing is, we all recognised you as a Somewhen Thing, as someone we had met before. You were one of us from the moment you stepped into our group and therefore we wanted to spare you heartache. Hunt magic is very peculiar, there are many mysteries about it. One of which is the fact that newbies sometimes arrive with remnants of memories, but they will without a doubt eventually lose them all over time. We just helped to hurry that process along in order to make you forget about wanting to leave, so you wouldn't be disappointed.”

“That's why we constantly called you 'Seeker' in the beginning,” Wolfe added quietly, while holding Seeker's hand. “Your Hunt name erased your alive name.” She blinked tears away. “Because the only way for you to escape, back to your life, would be if someone outside of The Hunt would call you by your name. But we knew that there was no one left who remembered you, so...”

“We didn't want to see you getting your hopes up only for them to be shattered,” Half took over. “And then this episode at the barn happened and you freaked and we were afraid you might do something rash. So I traded Perchta my best joke for a few leaves of Forget-Me from Berchthold's magical garden in Holle's Pond. That did the trick: You forgot your ambition to leave and...” he looked up, pleadingly, “you were happy, Seeker, weren't you?”

“I guess I was,” Seeker acknowledged quietly. Hearing their reasons had quenched most of his anger. “And I see why you thought it necessary, although you should have just told me. But why should I know what's going on, right? Backstabbing me like that was just...”

“Seeker–” BraveHeart started.

“Don't call me that,” the addressee calmly cut across. “Tell me my real name.”

There was an uncomfortable pause. Finally, Ember spoke: “We can't. We don't remember it.”

“What?” Seeker's head snapped around so quickly, it hurt. “What do you mean?”

“It's gone. It disappeared when you accepted 'Seeker' as your new name, the day you burnt your jumper,” Wolfe revealed unhappily.

Seeker swore under his breath.

“It wouldn't help you anyway. Out there, in the world of the living, no one even knows you exist and you can't tell strangers because... You must have realised it on your trip: People can see us only during Yuletide since that is the time between years – one year ends, a new one begins – a crossroad of sorts. That's when Perchta's powers are strongest and between her and Berchthold they can make us all visible. But only then. Now, we are nothing but shadows, protected by the barriers of Hunt magic.”

“Except you are wrong and there is one person that remembers me,” Seeker corrected, gnashing his teeth.

Four pairs of big eyes stared at him.

“Surprised? Yeah, it's the boy we nearly ran over in front of the barn during The Last Ride back in January. His name is Draco and he is looking for me and once he finds me, he will call me by my alive name and free me. So, I'm not worried. But it would have been nice to know my own name.”

“How have you learnt all that?” Half enquired, flabbergasted.

“Because I ran into him, out there. He couldn't see me and all, but he probably figured out this is a Hunt area or something. I think he's rather smart, yeah.”

“Wow, that is beyond awesome, Seeker! He must be so cool! Oh wow, that's so rare! Like one in a million!” BraveHeart's eyes sparkled with excitement.

“He's definitely cool,” Seeker agreed and he finally grinned. “So you better not try anything Forget-Me-ish again. That way I can leave here without regrets when Draco comes to save me.”

“We won't. Cross my heart,” Wolfe promised and the others nodded, following her in motioning a crossing gesture over their chests. Snowdrop hooted and Scoffer gave a weak woof. “We will miss you of course, when you go, but we want the best for you, truly.”

Oh, Seeker would miss these idiots, too. More than he let himself feel at the moment; but his life was out there, with Draco, and Seeker simply couldn't stay with The Hunt forever. Even if that meant, leaving the friends behind.

He eyed them. “I'm still angry at you, though.” The gang's faces fell. “You can make it up to me by throwing me a bad-ass party since I learnt from Draco that it is my birthday today.”

That had everyone jumping up and scattering in bustling busyness.

Seeker smiled sadly. Their betrayal would stick with him for a long time still; he knew as much. But he understood that their endeavours had come from a place of friendship and he would do his best to see it that way – even if it would take some time until he could trust them again.

Interrupting Seeker's musings, Half approached him carefully, looking uncertain.

“What is it?” Seeker queried, keeping his voice neutral.

The redhead shifted from one foot to the other. “I know we just made up... we did, didn't we?”

Seeker nodded.

“Ah, good. Well, then... in the light of our conversation just now I need to tell you something. The advancing of your memory loss regarding your life was merely accelerated by calling you Seeker and giving you Forget-Me Tea to drink. What I mean to say is that it is a continuous, unstoppable process related to Hunt magic. Even if you remember him now, if that Draco of yours doesn't hurry, you will have forgotten about him again when he finally comes for you.” He bit his lip, frowning when Seeker smiled.

“It's all right, Half. As long as Draco remembers, all is well. I put my trust in him. He will come for me. He will find me.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I just know.”

Half cocked his head thoughtfully. “You must really like him.”

Seeker hummed non-committally. Through all this, all he had known for sure was that he needed to speak with Draco. The other boy's confession had come as a surprise. Concerning Seeker's own feeling towards Draco, he wasn't completely sure himself. He just knew that, for some reason, he trusted him and whatever Draco meant to him – these feelings were warm and aching and a lot.

***

Seeker's birthday party had been a blast. Half had even arranged for fireworks and everyone had been really impressed by Seeker's new-found ability to use his magic stick to burn little doodles into the dry earth.

Since then summer had come to an end and in the last rays of the late August sun Holle (or Frigg?) finally returned – and with her the clouds above the clearing and the ever-falling snow.

Her previously empty basket was full of fruit and other harvest yield, which she handed out generously among the riders (although they noticed she gave more to girls than guys).

...and then Seeker forgot about the stars.

Colourful leaves were falling when the gang spent an enjoyable afternoon in September with an artwork contest, during which everyone needed to try building something out of nuts.

Unsurprisingly, BraveHeart lost, as he ate all his building material and then insisted his art was nihilistic and called 'Nut Feast'. An honourable mention got Wolfe's interpretation of 'Berchthold on Sleipnir' which caused the others to refer to this day henceforth as Berchthold's Day. Surprisingly, it was Ember who won in the end, as he simply had put four nuts close together on the ground with a fifth nut balancing on top and called it 'Us' – four Hunt people helping Seeker to stay afloat with his dwindling memories.

...and then Seeker forgot about the barn.

October brought drizzling rain and a new craze for a game they called hide-and-seek Valkyrie style. The rules were the normal ones, except for when you were found you had to run as fast as you could to a pre-game chosen tree and touch it before the seeker team could. The hiding team would win by having all members touch the elected tree. However, if a seeking person reached the tree first, you were caught and had to 'play dead' (“Hilarious pun, Half...”). If all hiders had 'died', the game was over. Still, a 'fallen' could be 'brought back to life' by the kiss of a 'Valkyrie'. That's why the participating moss folk were playing hiders at all times, since they were the perfect Valkyries and the kisses they gave were always met by a ton of laughter, followed by the 'resurrected' player running and finding a new hiding place.

Everyone had been surprised when Seeker had switched to Team Jolly Roger in the first game. But he had just grinned when they had asked him and had told them that he had seen a cool tattoo on his trip to the outside world which had made him change his mind about the skull design.

...and then Seeker forgot about the park.

It was on the last day of November when Berchthold came back to The Hunt, antlers held up high.

And then Seeker forgot about Draco.

***

On December 24th, The Wild Hunt packed up camp and made ready to leave the summer residence at Windsor Forest and Great Park. It was a bone-chillingly cold day. So gelid that the trees, covered in ice crystals, looked as if their branches were afire with white flames and the gold offerings from baby-wishers, at the bank of Holle's Pond, were completely frozen over.

Seeker said goodbye to the moss folk and took a last look around the clearing that had been his home for the last year. He felt somewhat nostalgic, as if he would never come here again.

A goose honk made him flinch and he craned his neck to confirm that indeed Holle had taken on her Dormarth dog-ish form. In that case, he'd better hurry.

The now familiar weather change brought storm, thunder and lightning, as well as fog and hail.

“Chop-chop, Seeker, we got a sighting of The Beginning,” Half greeted him, shouting over the turmoil, while he heaved a heavy blanket onto Lightning's back. Seeker's horse had become slow and fat during summer and was not amused at all to be dragged out to work.

“I know, I heard it. Ember, are you ready?”

Ember was in the middle of putting reins on BraveHeart's horse Grapes. He turned around. “You want me to ride with you again?”

“What? Of course. Unless...” Seeker faded out, uncertain.

“Oh, I do, too, it's just...”

Both boys eyed Lightning critically. The glutton was really out of shape.

"I guess you could ride with Gee and me for a while,” Half chimed in, hastily fastening a bag to his horse. “He has six legs after all."

“Actually BraveHeart and I have been talking and we think it would be best if we all took turns,” Wolfe interjected from her horse Binky's left side. She smiled at Ember. “You're one of us, we should all share."

“All good and well, but today he's not putting his hands all over you. So, Ember, you're with me,” the gang's leader decided as the wind picked up.

BraveHeart grinned. “So that he can put his hands all over you?”

Ember shot him a dirty look. “The only place I'm putting my hands is around your neck, midget, if you keep spouting nonsense.”

“And around Dreamer,” Seeker supplied, chuckling. The snow was coming down hard now.

“Yeah, our Dreamer... she is so good at sleeping, she can do it with her eyes closed,” Half laughed and mounted Gee, accompanied by a loud thunder clap.

“Stop dilly-dallying! We're leaving,” Ember growled and climbed up behind the redhead.

Up and away went The Wild Hunt and the second to last knot on Seeker's bracelet turned red. He was too busy looking out for The Beginning to notice, though.

Ah, there she was! As she'd always been: A small cloud of gentle brightness and in its centre a young woman with floating soft hair bathed in light and shrouded in feelings of purpose and novelty. Seeker knew her to be Holle and not Holle at the same time.

Just as he was Seeker of The Hunt.

He had forgotten he'd ever seen a dragon in The Beginning.

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It was that very night when, unbeknownst to Seeker, a certain blond boy of nineteen and a half years went to bed after a long day of last-minute Christmas shopping.

He turned off the lights, hummed a Christmas carol and fell asleep – not realising that he had not said his mantra yet... as he had finally forgotten the last bit about one Harry James Potter.

Chapter Text

Harry shook off a couple of raindrops. What ghastly weather it was tonight. Even with the Umbrella Charm Hermione had taught him, he was wet now as the sudden wind gusts had doused him with cold water from all sides. Well, what could you expect from mid-November.

He had been too lazy to use the long way round to the Patchers' entrance and had entered the castle through the front portal instead.

Earlier, a nightmare had woken him up and after consulting the Marauder's Map (and finding what he'd been looking for), Harry had decided that a bit of patching would do him good.

Now, shortly before midnight, Hogwarts' Entrance Hall lay silent and deserted. There was no sound but the drip-drop of water from Harry's drenched clothes and the quiet snoring of his portrait on the wall.

Harry made a face. Really, that thing was an abomination.

Thankfully, Headmistress McGonagall had found a way to have Harry's painted self permanently under a Sleeping Spell after Rita Skeeter had tried to pry information from him during the re-opening celebrations. This way, the blabbermouth painting couldn't give away private details to just anyone and only a select few knew the 'password' to wake up Portrait-Harry.

The real Harry glanced at the to-do-list for Patchers, that now, with the school running, had been put into a corner at the stairs. There weren't that many jobs left, but Harry already knew where he would go anyway, so he dismissed the written tasks in favour of strolling over to the plaques.

“Hey, guys,” he said quietly to the Fallen Fifty. The answer was silence. Guilt stabbed him unpreparedly like a knife and he quickly turned away. He felt unworthy to face them, as he had failed them so greatly.

Harry sighed and made for the hallway to the dungeons, but his steps faltered before he got there and then he stopped. Damn his curiosity.

He turned on his heels and walked back to his painted twin. After all, this was the perfect opportunity.

Biting his lips, he hesitated only for a moment, before he spoke the secret word to wake up his portrait: “Mimblewimble.” (Uncle Vernon would have a fit would he know Harry used his ramblings back from the hut on the rock to do magic. The thought filled Harry with glee.)

Portrait-Harry yawned and blinked.

“Hello,” said the real Harry and felt suddenly very stupid. “How are you doing?”

The image eyed him curiously for a moment. “Just fine, thanks. Anything I can do for you?”

“Oh. Er, I just, I mean, I thought–”

“Get a grip! We don't stutter,” chided the portrait.

Harry spluttered. “We?”

The tableau furrowed his brows. “Yes, we. I'm modelled after your image after all. Also, I know you pretty well and you wouldn't have woken me up for no reason, so spit it out already.”

“Let's get one thing straight: You are not me! Not in the least.”

Portrait-Harry looked down his nose. “Really? Because I could swear you've been checking the Marauder's Map to see if Malfoy's around before coming here tonight.” Harry choked. “That's what I would have done anyway. And for your information, he's probably at the Slytherin common room.”

Harry choked some more. “How do you know that?”

The pictured smiled his goofy smile that the painter had so totally mucked up. “Maybe I've been following him around a bit? I mean, looking is not a crime.” He shrugged.

Harry felt himself go red for two very different reasons. “Why would you even–? No, answer this first: You are supposed to be sleeping at all times. How can you stalk Malfoy when you're asleep?”

“Stalking is such a strong word, Harry.” He received a glare. “Ah, okay, okay, so, er, sometimes Headmistress McGonagall lets me roam during the nights. I guess she feels sorry for me. After all, it is pretty mean to have me under a Sleeping Spell all the time. It's like being back at the Dursleys', locked up in my cupboard all over again.”

“My cupboard!” Harry growled, although he felt a bit of pity for his counterfeit.

“Our cupboard then.” Portrait-Harry sighed. “Just so you know, I don't blab out our secrets just because I'm painted to look like an idiot. I mean you don't have such a hideously goofy face. Why do I?” He frustratedly pulled at a lock of his disarrayed hair. “Still, I'm you, okay? I can keep my mouth shut if need be. I remember all our life up until being painted; I feel like you feel, so could you please stop being a dick to me. I didn't ask to be made!”

“Sorry, yeah. I'm just super uncomfortable with the idea of another version of me.”

“Welcome to the club.”

They were quiet for a moment, each lost in thought, then Harry asked carefully: “You won't tell anyone, will you? About this conversation.”

“Our secrets are safe with me.”

“Hmh,” Harry hummed, glancing up and then away again, his cheeks tinting. “So, what makes you think that I came looking for someone in particular tonight?”

The portrait snorted. “Oh, come off it! When have we ever not looked for Malfoy – or at him?”

“He's not up to something, if that was what you were implying,” Harry countered heatedly.

“I wasn't. But that wasn't what you thought I thought you thought. Really, you have to stop trying to lie to me. I know you inside out.”

Harry went scarlet at that. “Wasn't lying,” he mumbled.

“Just omitting then.” The portrait nodded.

“It's not like that or actually... Okay, I admit, I'm confused about him, like, really, really confused. You might not know this, but Ginny and I broke up.” Harry's face grew serious. “At first I was devastated but then I realised that she was right: We make better friends than lovers. We are like pieces of a puzzle which, after having been burnt and broken, no longer fit.” He rubbed his forehead. “Anyway, she and I are over and ever since, no, maybe even before? God, I don't even know where to start. I'm so unsure. What is it about him?” Harry looked helplessly at his own (slightly distorted) face.

“If you're asking me, if you – if we – like Malfoy then the answer is: We don't know,” Portrait-Harry provided. “But the fact that we are even asking this question is kind of... you know, tell-tale?"

Harry sighed deeply. “I know that I like him all right as a person. He's really not such a git anymore and I do enjoy spending time with him. But lately I've been wondering if there is more to it? Do I like him or do I like him?”

“I can't answer that.”

“But you insinuate,” Harry replied thoughtfully. “When were you painted again?”

“Shortly before the start of the Death Eater trials this summer. Why?”

Harry's eyes went big. “But that... does that mean that even back then I did, we did... Did we?”

At this, Portrait-Harry blushed. “Maybe you should talk about this with him.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, subconsciously mirroring the movement made earlier by his counterfeit. “I wouldn't know where to start. Hell, I don't even know if there's anything to talk about. But it... when I'm with him, the chaos calms down a bit. We can simply be Malfoy and Potter and bicker and banter and all that. You wouldn't think so with our history, but sometimes it's easier to be around him than Ron or Hermione. I mean, he gets it...”

“The weight of guilt,” the portrait agreed, nodding solemnly.

“Yeah, that. And it could be we are just becoming friends, but it feels like... more?”

“It's always been more with him, somehow. For better or worse. Mostly worse.”

Harry smiled ruefully. “Right, you would know.” Then his expression softened. “He went to our parents' gravesite with me this Halloween.”

Portrait-Harry's eyebrows shot up in surprise. “He did? How was it?”

“It was nice. Sad, but nice. It really helped to have him there with me. Can you believe it? He even let me cry into his expensive shirt.” Harry chuckled at the memory.

His painted self looked thoughtful. “We never do that though. We never lean on others, not wholly. Sure, we ask for help, but in the end we are used to fending for ourselves. And yet...” he left the sentence unfinished hanging between the two Harrys.

And yet...

Finally the real Harry cleared his throat and declared: “I will think about the Sleeping Spell, all right? See if there can be a better solution.”

“You do that.”

“Good night,” said Harry.

“Good night,” said the other Harry.

“Mimblewimble.” Upon the word, the portrait fell back asleep.

Harry turned towards the Slytherin common room. Even without his way-too-self-confident portrait's input, he had known where to look for Malfoy. After all, the Marauder's Map had shown him earlier.

While walking down the hallways he wondered why his painted self could speak the truth out loud he himself didn't even dare to think. Maybe, because Portrait-Harry had nothing to lose... after all, he would always be frozen in the state he had been in when he had been painted. Sure, as a portrait, he could make new memories, but he would never really live, never change. Maybe knowing that made him fearless of consequences.

Halting in front of the entrance to the common room, Harry finally pushed the thought away. He knew the hidden door to be behind a bare stretch of stone wall in the dungeons, although it had been years since he'd been in this particular corner of Hogwarts. He grinned; back then he had also come here because of Malfoy, even though at that time Harry had been wearing a Goyle-costume.

Picking up the Marauder's Map, Harry watched his little ink self as the tiniest speech bubble appeared next to his figure. The words inside said 'Harry Potter'.

Harry blinked, then barked a laugh.

He was still giggling, when he pressed out his name and entered the long, low underground room.

Illuminated by the dim light of round, greenish lamps hanging on chains from the ceiling and a dying fire under an elaborately carved mantelpiece, Harry made out Malfoy standing at the far right side, giving off an annoyed vibe.

“Evening.” Harry grinned as Malfoy flinched and spun around. “Nice password they have this week. Got good taste, this year's Slytherins.”

“You mean no taste at all – and it's bloody midnight, you nuisance. Get yourself a watch!” Malfoy growled, turning his back at Harry, who went to stand next to him.

“Well, someone's in a mood. What's eating you?”

Malfoy sighed and rubbed his forehead. “The window won't stay see-through, no matter what I try.”

Right, so Harry had heard: The big circular, observational window into the lake had been shattered during The Battle of Hogwarts. While immediately fixed in order to not flood the whole castle, the spell that had been used had turned out to have the permanent effect of leak-proof but opaque glass. It had since stayed that way, as the window was not a priority.

“And that’s a real shame,” Malfoy resumed, “because coming in here that first morning after the Sorting and seeing the lake through this window… It’s marvellous during the daytime: The sunlight weaves turquoise patterns and you can watch the creatures living inside, sometimes even the giant squid. You have to see it, Potter.” His eyes were unusually sparkly and he looked younger somehow. Until he turned back to Harry with a frown. “But maybe you did… recently... why are you soaking? Use your magic, will you?” He flicked his wand at Harry, drying off the latter’s clothes.

Harry felt warmth bubbling up inside him. This side of Malfoy was so rare. How was it suddenly so cute that Malfoy was looking out for his younger housemates? Harry frowned. Wait, what? Cute?

“How did you get in here anyway? No non-Slytherin should know the password,” Malfoy continued.

“Secret,” was Harry's mischievous answer which got him a death glare. Yeah, so not cute. At all.

“Well, since you're here, how about some help? I tried these spells,” Malfoy pushed a list of crossed-out words at Harry, “but they didn't stick, so I was thinking maybe...” And he went into a long-winded explanation about the balance of spells and their characteristics of which Harry didn't understand half.

“Uh-huh, yeah, alright, let's try that, the, er, last one you said.”

Malfoy gave him a long look and then sighed deeply. “You didn't get that, did you?”

Harry sheepishly shook his head.

“Have you learnt nothing during your Patcher days?”

“I've been a bit busy, okay? The Ministry asks me to help with charities and stuff. I can't be here as often as you,” Harry defended half-heartedly.

The truth was – and they both knew it – that even if he would spend as much time patching as Malfoy, Harry would never get the finer aspects of counter-balancing and all that since he wasn't paying enough attention. He was good while doing it, but dry theory just wasn't his cup of tea.

“Yeah, yeah, the mighty Scarhead doesn't have time for us mortals.” It could have been a snipe, but Malfoy smiled. “Just follow my lead then. Should be easier between the two of us.”

“The irony,” Harry dead-panned and was pleased when that earnt him a chuckle from the other boy. Good. Genuine laughter was what looked best on Malfoy after all.

The spell was complicated, but repetitive and they soon fell into an easy rhythm.

Harry was on the verge of zoning out, when Malfoy started humming. It was a gentle melody that made Harry feel at ease. After a while words were added here and there, quietly, in a language, Harry was almost certain, was French.

“Avant toi... J'étais seule ici.”^[1]

The window quivered and flashed a few times back and forth between transparent and non-transparent, then it went dark again.

Harry was just about to say something uplifting, when a pearly someone came crashing through the tinted glass.

“Brr, terrible that lake. Oh, hello, Harry! Long time no see.” Moaning Myrtle, squat and bespectacled as always, pretended to shake off water like a dog. “Good thing you gave some light signals or I would have stayed in there for the whole night. Got flushed, you see. Oh, Draco, hi!”

There was an awkward pause during which both boys tried to stomach Myrtle's sudden appearance and the fact that she had mistaken their trying to repair the window as ‘light signals’, then they both spoke at once:

“Hi–”

“Hey–”

But it was too late, the ghost girl's face had already turned an unsightly dark grey colour. “You! You both are back here at Hogwarts, frolicking together and don't even say hello?! But yeah, who would think of itsy-bitsy Myrtle once they leave school, huh? No one!” To the boys' horror, she teared up. “You are so horrible! I thought you were my friends! Harryyy, Dracooo, wah. And you used to be so nice! Wahhh.” And without giving either of them the chance to reply, Moaning Myrtle disappeared through the nearest wall, her cries still audible for a few seconds after.

She left a ringing silence.

The lights flickered. No, they didn't. But it felt to Harry as if they did, when the world suddenly started tilting before his eyes. Myrtle and Malfoy and water...

“Whoa, easy there, Potter, maybe you should sit down?” Malfoy's hand was on Harry's arm, steadying him.

“How can you even look at me?” Harry whispered faintly, trying to brush Malfoy off. “After what I did to you in her bathroom back in sixth year.” They had never talked about that incident.

Malfoy snorted bitterly. “That should be my line, don't you think? I tried to turn you over to the Dark Lord."

“You wouldn't have,” Harry said quietly and let himself be sat down onto the windowsill.

Malfoy was silent for a moment, his face unreadable. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know you. You're not a murderer. You wouldn't have stood by and watched me get killed. I know that. You know that. You wouldn't have,” Harry reaffirmed. Then he cracked a wobbly smile. “Also, you would have missed fighting with me too much. Admit it.”

Malfoy tentatively smiled back, but it was thin-lipped and earnest.

Harry swallowed. “But I... what I did–”

“Let's not,” Malfoy interrupted, but Harry needed to get this off his chest. How long had he pushed away the memory of that terrible night, when he had nearly taken a life. Malfoy's life... The thought was too unbearable.

“No,” Harry insisted, “I have to say this now: You and Snape always mocked me about how I thought I was better than everyone else and it used to drive me mad because I thought you were so far off, but the truth is,” he faltered, then went on, “the truth is, you were right about me. I didn't realise it until later, but being treated as if I were special in the wizarding world got to my head and subconsciously I acted as if I were. I broke the rules. I broke the law. Hell, I used Unforgivable Curses. And I... I nearly killed you, Draco. I'm so sorry!”

He buried his face into his palms, so he didn't have to look at the other boy. Guilt and shame and the fact that he had just called the boy he may or may not have feelings for by his given name for the first time, all while simultaneously destroying any chance of them to ever be anything at all – it was all too much. Harry was having a nervous breakdown. Hunched over, he whimpered quietly.

No sound from the other boy. Maybe he had left, never to return again, never to talk to Harry again...

Harry startled when Malfoy sat down next to him and gently pried one of Harry's hands from his face, without saying a word.

While Harry's heaving slowly subsided, Malfoy simply continued holding his hand. When the blond boy finally spoke, it was barely audible: “You already apologised enough, Potter.”

Harry snivelled. “No, I never did.”

“You're an idiot.” The insult was spoken very gently. “It doesn't need words for an apology. You saved my life and you saved my freedom and every day you come here and don't treat me like a leper, you save my sanity. Look, Potter, I was angry at you back then. Of course I was. But I was also drowning in my own fear.” He lightly squeezed Harry's fingers. “I don't think I would have survived that night in the hospital wing if you hadn't been there, comforting me.”

It was true. Crushed by guilt, Harry had crept out of bed the night he had attacked Malfoy in Myrtle's bathroom and snuck into the hospital wing to sit at his rival's bed, while holding his hand and looking at his too-pale face. In the morning, he had left and never told anyone.

Harry looked up, startled. “You knew?”

Malfoy smiled sadly. “Of course I knew. Who else would steal to my bedside in the middle of the night and squash my hand. You are not very subtle.”

“You never said anything.”

“There was nothing to say.” Malfoy looked at Harry. “And there is nothing to say now. You made mistakes. I made mistakes. We're working on fixing them. I believe you were the one to tell me so. Now,” he got up and pulled Harry with him, “let's get this thing fixed, too, shall we?”

“Yeah... yeah, alright.”

And as if they didn't just have a conversation about life and death and darkness, they returned to chanting spells. But maybe that was the beauty of their current relationship: United they could fall apart and put themselves back together again.

Malfoy starting singing once more: “Avant toi, je n'avais rien. Avant toi, on n'm'a pas montré le chemin.”^[2]

Half an hour later, the window finally stayed see-through and revealed the lake: murky darkness aside from numerous glinting dots of bioluminescence and in the distance, a ghostly shine, probably stemming from the merpeople’s dwellings. It was eerily breathtaking.

“J'avais les mots mais pas la chanson,”^[3] Malfoy intoned happily, looking satisfied.

“Yes, well done us. Now, that song, what's it about?”

Malfoy grinned. “It's about an annoying guy who always gets himself into trouble.”

A quiet laughter made them both turn around. Myrtle had come back and was now hiding her pimpled face behind one hand.

Harry frowned at her. “Hello, Myrtle. Why are you laughing?”

“Because,” the ghost said with maximal glee, “Olive Hornby, that bully, used to swear at me in French. So I learnt a bit and that's not what it means.”

Looking back and forth between the pale girl and a blushing Malfoy, Harry had the distinct feeling that he was missing something. “Well, what does it mean then?”

“Nothing!” Malfoy exclaimed hastily, his eyes shooting daggers at Myrtle. “Just some song.”

“Yes, but what–”

Malfoy was spared the answer as at that very moment, the entrance to the Slytherin common room was opened and revealed one tartan-clad Headmistress in a hair-net.

“Ah, so it's true then. Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy,” she nodded at both of them in turn.

“Headmistress McGonagall, what brings you here at this hour?” Malfoy asked, clearly trying to steer the conversation away from the song.

“I was informed,” the old woman related while giving Myrtle a stern gaze, “that you two were 'being mean to girls at the Slytherin dorms'. Now, I can see, I was woken for nothing. Thank you, Myrtle.” The ghost girl blew out her cheeks. “But it's nice to see you two have become friends. Good work on the window.”

“They aren't friends,” Myrtle corrected, mirth back in her eyes. “They can never be just friends.”

Uh oh, dangerous. Time to change the subject. Harry was grasping for straws.

“Headmistress,” he nearly screamed, making everyone flinch. “Did you by any chance bring some biscuits?”

“...I did, yes. In anticipation. Would you like some?” She gestured at a group of armchairs at the fire which, with the flick of her wand, had roared back into life.

“I could use a snack. For a job well done,” Malfoy shrugged and Harry followed suit.

So, they sat down, chatted and had biscuits. Even Myrtle joined in, after they had invited her into the conversation, when before she had been sulking in a corner for not having been asked.

It was a weird but pleasant tea party (without tea).

Harry came home with the first rays of sunrise and when he finally fell asleep, he heard Malfoy singing in his head: “Avant toi...”^[4]

Chapter Text

A present for Mother. Check. A present for Father. Check. A present for Aunt Andromeda and a present for Teddy. Double check. A present for Hermione, for the Weasel, for Theodore, for Pansy, for Howard, for Eagle, for Kreacher... Draco sighed. Being friendly with people really tore a hole in his finances.

Why was it again he felt obliged to get presents for everyone and their cat this year? Oh yeah, remorse and some such... and possibly, he wrinkled his nose, friendship. Geez, he'd gone soft.

Maybe he should just take all this rubbish back to the stores and spend the reimbursement on a nice little solitary trip to Hawaii... At the moment, Draco was very tempted to do just that, since he was currently in the middle of a full-to-the-bursting-point Diagon Alley on December 24th. Merlin, could people not shop for Christmas presents a bit earlier?

He himself hadn't had time, since up until yesterday he'd been hunting down a lead in Egypt. Which had unfortunately turned out to be another dead end.

Draco had spent the second half of the year globetrotting after every tiny hint. That and his other activities had resulted in him having a full schedule and putting off Christmas shopping until the very last minute.

He growled as someone bumped into his shoulder. The street was way too crowded and people staring down at their present lists didn't pay attention to their surroundings much. At least no one had attacked him. Yet. Although these incidences had become less and less.

Finally, he stopped in front of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and took a deep breath. Through the shop's windows he could clearly see that the inside was packed with more people than should be allowed. But he still needed an uplifting gift for Greg as he was to stay in St. Mungo's during the holidays, although he was already much better. There was the chance that he could be released soon after New Year's.

Draco opened the door, which announced him cheerfully with a squeaky 'hark! how the bells', and, startling, he squeezed inside. Behind him, some people left the store, earning them a 'sweet silver bells'. Okay, so the door chime was carolling. Draco would have thought it cute, if it didn't slaughter the song the way it did: Every two seconds, the door was opened, resulting in another rapid-fired line.

He made a face. Weasley humour. Maybe he should go somewhere else after all.

No such luck though. “Malfoy.” Twin Weasley, merrily clad in a bizarre Christmas costume, motioned at him over the heads of the crowd.

(It wasn't that Draco didn't know the ginger's name by now, mind you. He just thought it more fun to use nicknames for the redheaded bunch. A leftover from his former days.)

He sighed resignedly and went to stand next to the shop owner. “Hullo, Weasley... Weasleys,” he quickly added as he noticed Stuck-Up Weasley loitering behind his brother and nodding at Draco. “Where's Ronald?”

The Weasel had told Draco that those two so different siblings had surprisingly become very tight during the last year. Maybe the missing brother between them made them stick closer together.

“Out on errants. Did you come to discuss the Sunshine potion? I still didn't manage to fix the kinks.” Twin Weasley shrugged which caused his costume to emit little colourful sparks. He followed Draco's bewildered gaze and grinned. “Neat, right? Want one?”

“Ah, no, thanks,” Draco hastily declined. Nothing in this world would make him ever wear a monstrosity like this. “And no, I didn't come for the potion.” Their relationship had thankfully much improved since last year, as Draco had been roped into helping the joke shop with advice on potions and Liquid Sunshine was their newest project: a non-addictive instant mood-lifter. “I'm here for a present. Something fun but not tasteless.”

The shop owner's eyes gleamed. “Oh, great! We have a wide assortment. Let me show you!” He bustled off.

“I can look on my own,” Draco yelled after him, but the redhead only shouted back over his shoulder: “It's VIFF service!”

Aha.

Draco turned to Stuck-Up with raised eyebrows.

“'Very Important Family Friend',” the ginger translated, looking unconvinced of the content of this assertion. He pulled himself together though and added: “Ron says you are an okay bloke and you help out with the store for free and the library...” he trailed off.

Manor Library had officially opened its doors on the first of September. Of course, the current selection left a lot to be desired, but the foundation Hermione had managed to gather so far, was solid and quite diverse. Draco himself had got the first library card and was in the middle of working his way through several volumes of The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle which Ronald had recommended. It was disconcertingly entertaining to read.

“Anyway, how is your search for, er, Paean going?” Stuck-Up asked, awkwardly trying to make conversation.

“Not great.” That was an understatement.

“Ah, sorry to hear that.”

“Are you talking about PewPew? Did you find him yet?” Twin Weasley had reappeared (if you could call it that, since his head was completely hidden behind a big pile of hazardously stacked knick-knack).

“No,” Draco rubbed his forehead, “and his name is Potter.”

“Righttttt,” the redhead agreed and then launched into a wild marketing sale that had Draco's ears ringing when he finally stepped back out onto the street ('all seem to say' chimed the door). Good gracious, that guy could sell water to fish. Draco had bought way more useless stuff than he had wanted to – and the VIFF discount had absolutely nothing to do with that.

Draco had a look at his to-buy-list. Not too many things left.

***

It was starting to get dark when Draco at last had everything together and was ready to head homewards. It was time; his stomach was growling already, in need of some sustenance.

He was about to Disapparate when his gaze landed on the only quiet corner in the whole bustling street: Ollivanders. Of course, the wand shop had its busiest time right before the start of a new school term.

Shifting his baggage to the other hand, Draco pondered. Over the months, his memories about Potter had dwindled to a miniscule remnant and lately Draco hadn't even been able to clearly recall the other boy's face other than green eyes.

Draco, who was starting to wonder just how long he could still hold on, had recently tried to find out more about 'the most powerful kind of connection' that had put him in the position to remember Potter in the first place.

Hermione's guess that the temporary, alternating (or shared?) ownership of Draco's wand made up that the strong link needed, was the best they had come up with. But maybe it was time to ask an expert on the matter of wands.

Draco made up his mind. He should've come here earlier, but he had put it off because of the prisoner-holding incident at the Manor. Now though, he had the feeling that he was slowly running out of time.

So, he entered Ollivanders and a tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop. The narrow store was as austere and dusty as it had been when he'd been eleven.

There was no one around.

“Hello?” Draco called into the stifling silence and was answered with more silence. “Is anybody here? Mr. Ollivander?”

“Good evening,” said a soft voice drifting towards Draco out of the darkness. He nearly had a heart attack.

A moment later, Mr. Ollivander appeared behind shelves full of stacked wands and approached Draco, stopping right in front of him, so that the old man was just a bit too close.

“Draco Malfoy. Hawthorn and unicorn hair. Ten inches precisely. Reasonably springy.” Draco could see himself reflected in the wandmaker's misty eyes. “I didn't expect to encounter you again, after our last meeting.”

The unspoken accusation hovered between them and Draco felt the need to lean back slightly. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all.

He swallowed. “I would like to formally apologise for all the mistreatment you endured in my residence.” It felt terribly inadequate.

The old man gave him a scrutinising look, his wide, pale eyes unblinking. “How curious.”

Draco waited a moment, but nothing else followed. So, he ploughed ahead. “I know you have no reason to help me, but,” he hesitated, “you might be the only one who can answer my question about wandlore.”

Mr. Ollivander leant a bit forward, even more into Draco's personal space. “I was tortured. I thought I would die in your house. But... it was fascinating to see what He Who Must Not Be Named's wand could do, up close. Terrible, yes, but great.” He reached out a pale finger and tapped at Draco's left arm, making the latter flinch away. “Witnessing his power was... formidable.”

'This bloke's crazy,' was what was going through Draco's mind, swiftly followed by, 'I better get out of here.'

“Er, right, again: I'm really sorry. Of course you are correct to reject me. I'll be taking my leave then.” He made a vague turn towards the door, only to be yanked back.

“I don't have to forgive you to give you professional advice!” hissed Mr. Ollivander, clearly hurt in his pride. “What's the question?”

Draco fidgeted, unsure. Then he straightened his back. For Potter.

So he told Mr. Ollivander the whole story about Potter and The Wild Hunt, concluding with: “... and that's why I was wondering whether or not we were right in our assessment? That Potter owning my wand for a while makes up the strong connection needed so that I didn't forget about him when everyone else did?”

The old wandmaker had sat down on the lone chair in the shop and listened closely. Now, he was tilting his head. “Wand-wizard-connections are complex. I've never heard of anything like it, but it's not impossible. Wandlore is a mysterious branch of magic. Right then, give me your wand.”

Draco acquiesced.

Turning the wand over in his hand, Mr. Ollivander hummed quietly to himself. “You say that this... Persia... willingly gave back your former wand to you because he said he would no longer require its allegiance?”

“Well, yes, sort of. Not in exactly those words, but yes.”

“How curious.” The old man kept on inspecting the wand, making his guest impatient.

“Sorry,” said Draco, “but what's curious?”

Mr. Ollivander looked up. “This wand's loyalty belongs to you and only you.”

Draco gaped at him. “What? But that, that doesn't make any sense!”

“Mhm,” hummed his interlocutor. “Much depends on the wand itself. The wand chooses the wizard after all. And it seems that this wand here chose to serve you fully once again after... Piggy... renounced his ownership.” Draco was very confused and very sceptical. It must've shown on his face. “You don't believe me? Well, have you noticed any difference in the performance of your spells after you got your wand back?” Draco slowly shook his head. “See? There you go.”

The old man looked pleased with himself and offered the wand back to Draco who tentatively took it.

“But then... I don't understand. The wand was the only plausible thing that was different. Why is it that I can remember Potter when no one else can if we don't have,” he gestured helplessly, emitting sparks from the tip of his wand in the process, “anything special between us?”

Mr. Ollivander's moon-like eyes shone amused through the dimness of the store. “You mean the most powerful connection you were talking about? If you ask me, it's a matter of the heart; it's not the wand, that is for sure. But I would guess there's not nothing between you two.”

Completely blind-sighted, Draco blushed hard and spluttered: “Wha– What are you even talking about?”

A knowing grin. “It is my business to match personalities, Mr. Malfoy, so I'm very good at reading people and you are positively glowing when talking about this Puppy of yours.”

“It's not like that,” Draco growled, wishing himself very far away. Why, oh why, did he think of coming here?

“Maybe not. But take it from an old man: Love has always been the strongest magic.” That sneaky old bastard. Like Draco needed metaphors right now. No, thank you.

“Well, you have my gratitude anyway and, er, sorry again.” Time to get out of here.

With a creak, the wandmaker got up and was once more way too close for comfort. “I have to say, I don't particularly like you. I will not forget so easily what happened at your house.” His uncomfortably big eyes bore into Draco's. “But lately I've heard good things about you – turning the Manor into a library was a smart idea. So, I wish you luck in finding Presley and... Merry Christmas.”

“Happy holidays, Mr. Ollivander,” said Draco quickly and basically fled the store. This man was creepy as hell and worst of all, he had given Draco something (un?)comfortable to think about.

Love. Love. It couldn't possibly be something so frivolous as love? And even if it were, Ronald and Hermione loved Potter before his disappearance; others too. How could they not remember him then?

Yet… during the final duel at The Battle of Hogwarts, hadn’t Potter and the Dark Lord talked about love basically being a cure-all? Draco had not been able to hear the complete conversation as he had stood way back in the crowd, but there had been something about love. Mhm.

Then again, if this were the answer (and Draco nearly stumbled at this thought), did he himself actually love...? That was absurd. Yes, there were some feelings and yes, maybe they were of the romantic kind, but love? Like, real love?

Draco sighed. He would have to discuss this with Hermione, see what she made of all of this. It would be embarrassing, but he still had to do it.

Mr. Ollivander ought to have provided clarification on a good theory, instead he had ruined everything.

Draco stopped, wondering for a moment if the old man had just been pulling his leg? As revenge?

Maybe...

Tilting his head up to the dark sky, Draco simply stood, listening to nearby Christmas tunes drifting from a shop: 'throw cares away'.

Potter would have a laugh about this for sure. Painful aching flashed through Draco's chest. God, he missed that idiot. As of tomorrow, Potter would have been gone for one year.

Softly, snow started falling, sticking to Draco's eyelashes.

He blinked. One year...? One year of what again?

He shook his head and Disapparated home. Lots to do still.

Not one of the busy last-minute Christmas shoppers was aware that something big and terrible had just happened. That in this very minute, the last memory had disappeared, of a boy who never lived.

***

“He's such a jerk!”

Wham!

The sound of the slamming door startled Howard and Eagle cuddling in front of the fireplace and made Draco accidentally snip off too much gift ribbon. Great, now he would have to re-do this.

“Draco!”

“In here!” he yelled and within seconds a very upset Hermione appeared in the living room of number 12, Grimmauld Place.

Aside from wearing a nice dress that practically screamed 'holidays', her appearance was in disarray, her bushy hair even wilder than usual. She looked livid.

“That was it! I'm getting a divorce!” Her red face screwed up. “Draco...” Very unlike her usual self, she held out her arms like a small child waiting to be picked up.

God lord above, was he spared nothing? Dutifully he wrapped the now freely crying young woman into his arms and did his best not to roll his eyes. He was used to the explosive fights of his friends, but he could have thought of a better time for a nuclear fallout than Christmas morning.

“What did he do now?” Draco asked, inwardly sighing. He would not be able to finish gift wrapping in time.

Hermione's head shot up, eyes glinting, but fierce. “What's with that tone? Are you on his side?”

Oh boy, dangerous territory. “I don't even know what happened yet.”

“Well,” she sniffed, “he got me this as a present.” She held out a worn book labelled How To Be The Perfect Housewife: 50 Ways To Support Your Bread-Winning Husband.

Draco blinked. “Come again?”

“This insult was under the tree! I looked first thing when I got up and there it was and I know he's slow sometimes, but this? On our first Christmas as a married couple? As if I would stay at home and cook and clean and raise his twenty children! I despise cooking! It’s like he doesn't know me at all!” She looked about to start crying once more.

“Okay, one? Of course he knows you. He adores you to a nauseating level. Two? You would seriously get divorced over an idiotic present? And three: I know for a fact, that was a joke. But since he understands you so well and how nosy you can be, he planted your real gift here and I'm sure he would have told you that if you had asked him,” Draco chided sternly, “which you didn't, did you?”

“... no.” The witch shook her head, clearly feeling silly and that was completely new to her.

“It was – supposed – to be – a surprise. George’s – idea.” Came a wheezing from the entry, making Draco hastily drop his hold on Hermione. Ronald, pyjama top carelessly stuffed into his trousers, leant against the door frame, panting.

“Great. Now that you are here, Weasel, I'll leave you two to it, shall I?”

Draco excused himself and ventured into the kitchen where he started on making some tea. He vaguely wondered if maybe it hadn't been the best plan to have the newly-weds reconcile in his living room with the nice couch ensemble and he turned on the wireless, upping the volume as it played 'Christmas is here, bringing good cheer'.

About twenty minutes later, Draco was joined by a dishevelled but distinctively happier looking couple.

“Sorry for the, er, inconvenience, mate,” Ronald grinned, nicking Draco's cup. “Just a tiny domestic.”

“Well, I'm so glad you thought of coming here to solve your marital problems,” Draco drawled and flipped a page in the Daily Prophet.

“Actually, yes,” beamed Hermione, pressing her new ancient spellbook (the real present) against her chest. “We're lucky to have a neutral place where we're both comfortable.”

Draco could feel his cheeks heat up, but he resolutely kept staring at the page in front of him. “Right. Between a whole library, The Burrow, Hogwarts and, I don't know, any other place, sure, happy to provide a safe space for you.”

“Thank you,” the Ronald-Weasel said sincerely, taking the wind out of Draco's sails. The redhead gazed tenderly at his wife. “Love can make you do crazy thing, but in the end, love always wins, doesn't it?” Draco's brows furrowed. Something about this sentence... But he had no time to pursue the thought, as the ginger continued: “Speaking of The Burrow – you're still coming for lunch tomorrow, yeah?”

“Sorry, what now?”

Hermione shot her husband a dark look. “Ronald. Did you not promise me you told Draco last month about the traditional Weasley lunch on Boxing Day?”

“Er...” The Weasel looked helplessly between a fuming Hermione and a dumbfounded Draco. “I thought I did?”

Hermione's mouth snapped open, but Draco, who feared another argument, quickly intervened. “Presents!” he yelled, making the other two flinch. “Time for presents. Accio!”

Two posh-looking envelopes came flying in through the door, landing safely in Draco's outstretched hand. He gave each of them the one with their respective names on it.

It had the desired effect of distraction.

Ronald turned his envelope over in his hands. “Wow, you wrote us Christmas letters. Thanks, Ferret.” He sounded less than impressed.

“Oh!” Hermione had opened hers and was now ogling at a very generous cheque made out to S.P.E.W. “Oh, Draco, that is wonderful,” she whispered and for the second time this morning she threw herself at Draco.

In the meantime, the redhead had also unfolded his 'letter'. “Is this...?” Disbelievingly he looked at Draco like the latter was a wonder. “But how did you do it?”

“It's called skill, Weasel,” Draco sneered and found himself wrapped in another hug.

“What is it?” Hermione asked, leaning curiously over to glance at her husband's present.

“A patented recipe for Liquid Sunshine, the potion I told you about.” He looked at Draco. “And it works?”

“Hmpf. Of course it works!”

“Thanks, mate! This is huge!” Draco was hugged some more. “You have to come to lunch tomorrow, yeah? To get your presents. You have to!” Hermione nodded enthusiastically in agreement.

Draco didn't have the heart to tell them that he had actually already made plans to visit his parents in France. He would just have to wing it somehow.

“Oh gosh, look at the time!” Hermione suddenly squeaked. “Merry Christmas, Draco! See you tomorrow!”

“Yeah, you too.” And they were gone in a flurry.

***

Draco rubbed his neck. It was late afternoon and he was standing in a brightly lit hallway of St. Mungo's, waiting for the lift. Three doors down, he could hear his Slytherin friends' voices singing off-tune: “To young and old, meek and the bold”.

He was feeling a bit sore, since they had launched into playing the new game Draco had got for Greg at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and they had made the loser of each turn do press-ups and jumping jacks.

Draco was slightly sad to leave already, but he had promised his parents to be there before dinner and even a Portkey to France still took some time.

It had been a fun afternoon, with lots of jokes and laughter. It had almost felt like they were back to being innocent children, unburdened by the weight of war.

Everyone had been happy with the little presents Draco had got for them – especially Millicent's eyes had shone at the sight of the framed picture of Howard. The big girl always had had a soft spot for cats.

There had been bickering and biscuits and they had all clinked glasses of non-alcoholic beverages to celebrate Greengrass' announcement of her sister's engagement.

When Draco had told them he had to go, a few minutes later, the merry bunch had tried to convince him to stay (“Just a bit longer!”), but Draco had waved them goodbye.

Eyeing a colourful banner with the lettering 'Merry Christmas' written across, Draco recalled something odd Pansy had asked him during that time: “Why do you never say Merry Christmas back?”

He had shrugged it off, but now the words echoed in his head. Something... about that phrase...

Ping.

The lift had arrived. Draco got on and hummed along the loudspeaker's 'ding, dong, ding, dong, that is their song'. When the doors opened at the ground floor, they revealed one handsomely clad Neville Longbottom in addition to a tall, thin lady with a disastrous hat. “Oh, hello, Malfoy. Merry Christmas!”

“You too, happy holidays.” Weird. Draco just couldn't bring himself to say it back.

“Malfoy, meet my grandmother. Gran, this is my former schoolmate, Draco Malfoy.”

Mrs. Longbottom's face stayed politely blank, even though Draco could feel disdain rolling off of her like a wave. Of course she would despise any ex-Death Eater, after what happened to her family.

“So, what are you doing here, today of all days?” Longbottom enquired, dangling from his arm a red women's handbag out of which peeked a toad.

Draco had to suppress a sneer – that thing was still alive? But it was very Longbottom. Nice to know some things never changed. Although, sometimes, change was the better way... “Visiting a friend. Greg actually. You?”

The other boy smiled sadly. “My parents.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. I should have known that.” Draco felt like a berk.

“It's okay, really.”

“I don't think we have time for chit-chat, Neville dear. Let's go, shall we?” The strident voice of Mrs. Longbottom cut through the air like a knife.

Surprisingly, instead of nodding and walking away, Longbottom turned to face his grandmother with a stern expression. “Gran, please stop being rude. We've been over this. Malfoy and I are doing repairs together at Hogwarts. He's a fellow Patcher. He's a good comrade and I would appreciate it, if you would trust my judgement on this matter.”

He was staring the bony lady down until she sighed. “Very well. Merry Christmas, Mr. Malfoy.” She stepped into the lift.

Draco gaped at Longbottom. Wow, that had come unexpected. Something warm and euphoric made its presence known in Draco's stomach. It had been undeserved, but he was grateful nevertheless.

Longbottom followed his grandmother, but then he quickly turned around. “By the way, there will be a Patchers' Christmas party at Hogwarts tomorrow night. In the kitchens. You should come. Oh and: Nice work on the Slytherin common room lake window! See you tomorrow!”

The doors slid shut in Draco's face and he was left without the opportunity to answer. What was it with former Gryffindors and their spontaneous invitations? Well, if he was going to the Weasleys' anyway, he could probably stop by the castle later.

Walking to the nearest fireplace, a song popped unbidden into his head. Being reminded of the window had prompted it. Draco slightly shook his head. What had he been thinking singing love songs to himself in the middle of the night?

***

The French landscape was covered in fine powdery snow when Draco arrived.

He had come alone since Aunt Andromeda had considerately written in advance, stating that Teddy was too young for longer travels yet; which was all well, since the Malfoys never had had the intention to invite the extended family in the first place.

His parents greeted him at the door and he was happy to see them. But after that, Christmas dinner turned out less enjoyable than Draco had hoped.

Yes, they still had the same six-course menu, colossal tree and exuberant presents they'd always had – but that was exactly the problem.

Living on his own these last one and a half years had taught Draco to see things in a different light and now that he'd found how much he'd changed he wasn't all that sad anymore to leave earlier than he had originally planned.

Also, something had been feeling off since yesterday... just... off...

So, right after breakfast on Boxing Day, he bade his parents goodbye and returned to Grimmauld Place.

***

Traditional Boxing Day Weasley lunch meant chaos, clamour and lots of VIFFs at The Burrow.

Draco found himself greeted by a dressed-up Mother Weasley who hastily excused herself to look after various foods in the kitchen. That however implied under no circumstances that Draco was left alone – quite the contrary. Within seconds he found himself in the middle of a redheaded bundle, all talking across each other in the generously decorated living room.

Draco ignored Twin Weasley and his girlfriend Johnson sucking face in a corner and opted for the couch instead, regretting it instantly. To escape the baby-conversation afoot between the Minister, Aunt Andromeda and a newly pregnant Beauxbatons, Draco scooped up Teddy and showed him the fairy lights. It was then that he found himself frowning. Last year, when he had been here during Christmas – what exactly had he come for? And after that, why had Ronald and Hermione shown up at his doorstep? Now, they’d been researching The Wild Hunt together for so long to find the Swedish baby girl... and yet he couldn’t recall why they had started in the first place. He wrecked his brain, but by the time frustration was close, a call of “Lunch is ready!” distracted him from his bad memory. He must be getting old...

Although it was essentially the same arrangement – food, tree, presents – , Christmas with the Weasleys was so completely different than with his parents that Draco found he could barely compare the two events: Sitting at the cramped table with zero elbowroom, the clatter of dishes and cutlery as well as the loud voices and laughter were often interrupted by the dreadful singing Christmas cards ('with joyful ring, all caroling') that had been Twin Weasley's present to everybody (including Draco, to his chagrin).

There was joking and teasing, heated discussions about Quidditch and politics, and underlining all that Mother Weasley's fabulous cooking.

Draco couldn't recall a happier Christmas, especially when he, blushing, offered the whole company his last-minute, slightly burnt biscuits instead of presents. He had, under Kreacher's stern tutelage, made them himself this morning and was rather proud of the outcome, considering that he had never baked before.

In return, Draco had been showered with bizarre and/or thoughtful gifts, including more than one unusual piece of pottery (“For your collection.”), making him wonder what had started his interest in ceramics. Was it... because of someone?

It was nightfall when Draco left for the Patchers' party at Hogwarts, which he would be attending alone, since neither Ronald nor Hermione had ever really got into patching after their return from Australia and all those in attendance that were actual Patchers preferred The Burrow over the castle tonight. Draco could understand that. He would have liked to stay longer, but he had some people to meet.

Catching snowflakes in his hand, he felt light and warm as if one of his many inner cracks had been healed just a little bit.

***

During his school days, Draco had never set foot into the Hogwarts kitchens. However, being a Patcher had quickly made him familiar with the vicinity.

Now, he didn't even need to think twice before walking down the stairs to the entrance area of the house-elves' realm.

He reached out to tickle a pear in a painting on the wall, when he felt eyes on him.

Caretaker Filch's dust-coloured cat Mrs. Norris sat in a corner, her lamp-like eyes focused on Draco. He sighed. Of course, she would be here, taking account of who came to the party – just in case.

Draco fumbled in his robe pockets for the treats he had brought to give Witherwings later to buy his favour. What hippogriffs could eat, cats could too. It was worth a try.

“Here, you headache. Happy holidays.” Draco threw a few snacks at the scrawny being and proceeded to enter the kitchens.

As soon as he opened the door, he was swamped with delicious smells and hubbub.

In the high-ceilinged room, that was as big as the Great Hall above, house-elves, teachers, Patchers and (as Draco suspected) even a few students, were loudly celebrating.

He stood awkwardly by the door for a moment, unsure as to where to go. After all, he'd mostly been patching alone for a reason, so... He paused. Had he been mostly patching alone? Hadn't there been someone with him? Someone–

“You made it!” Suddenly Longbottom was at Draco's side, pulling him over to the replica of the Hufflepuff table. Draco wrinkled his nose. Did it have to be Hufflepuff of all tables? Ugh.

“Malfoy, you're late!” Finnigan grinned at him over a mug of Butterbeer. “We were just about to start putting down bets whether or not you would still show up.”

“So glad I could provide entertainment,” Draco grumbled, sitting down primly between Lovegood and Thomas.

“A round for Malfoy,” Finnigan hollered ignoring Draco's sarcasm and zealous house-elves appeared to top off their beverages.

One of the tiny creatures wearing a skirt and a blouse with a matching blue hat looked vaguely familiar.

“Winky,” Lovegood greeted the familiar house-elf friendly. “What do you have there on your belt?”

The huge brown eyes of the addressee went even wider and for some weird reason her gaze flickered to Draco. “I is given a present, Miss,” she hid her tomato-sized nose behind her hands, “by Kreacher. And I is having to work!” She scooted off.

Draco blinked. Looking up close, he had realised that the something hanging on the apparently female house-elf's belt had indeed been a bag of his and Kreacher's self-made biscuits. The things you see when you live long enough...

It was a good in though. “Actually, I have some presents to hand out as well,” Draco said, earning him several raised eyebrows. Okay, yeah, he wasn't known for generosity but could they maybe be a bit less surprised? Gee.

He quickly dispensed his biscuits and was generally glad that no one made a bad joke about the quality of the baked goods. Weirdly, Lovegood even praised them. Well, that girl was peculiar in every sense.

Draco turned to his right. “No biscuits for you, Thomas. You punched me,” the dark-haired boy's face went grim so that Draco couldn't help himself and grinned, “and gave me a mission. Here.” He held out an envelope to his sceptical bench neighbour. “It's all in there. Happy holidays.”

Thomas tentatively took the present. “You found her?”

“I did.”

“And is she...” Thomas hesitated, but Draco understood what he was being asked.

“She's alive and well – and so are her children and her husband. She escaped and they made it all out of Britain just in time.”

Instead of the anticipated happy reaction, the other boy burst into tears and Draco panicked as two strong arms reached for him. However, within a moment, he found himself in yet another bone-crushing hug. Goodness. Christmas made people really touchy. Especially ex-lions.

Draco awkwardly patted Thomas' back, until the latter was done thanking him verbosely.

By that time, another round of drinks was served by house-elves and Draco remarked in a low voice that Hermione would have quite a bit to say about overworking and fairness, which earnt him a choking Finnigan and a cheerful Longbottom explaining that the house-elves were participating on their own free will and had turned down several times that the Patchers would serve themselves.

“It's their party as much as ours. After all, they did a lot of repairs around the castle,” Thomas snivelled. “They are actually rather fun to be around.”

As if to prove a point, Kreacher used that exact moment to appear at Draco's elbow to point out his Master should not forget to brush his teeth later.

Draco pinked. The others laughed and Lovegood invited Kreacher to sit with them, which he, to everyone's surprise, agreed to.

The night went on. Conversations were fluctuating. Winky had joined Kreacher at their table and now they were coyly holding hands. Draco started eating some more, even though he had been convinced to be full after The Burrow.

At some point, Peeves appeared and tried to bust the party, which was thwarted by the assembled revellers. Draco remarked that actually, it was only the collected frustration of the younger students staying at Hogwarts over Christmas. As they couldn't partake, it made the poltergeist go crazy, since Peeves was all their bad feelings combined. The group ogled Draco at that and then clinked glasses 'to fun trivia'.

Around midnight, the mood was rumbustious. An impromptu band had formed at the end of the hall by the large brick fireplace and Lovegood and Finnigan were dancing barefoot on the table to the tune of 'one seems to hear words of good cheer from ev'rywhere, filling the air'. Thomas, in high spirits, had decided to join them and was in the process of pulling a bristling Draco up with him, when suddenly Mrs. Norris jumped onto Draco's lap, nestling in his ropes.

That gave even the tipsy former Gryffindor pause and Draco, completely bewildered but thankful for the excuse, pointed at the purring cat to indicate the impossibility of him making a fool of himself on a Hogwarts kitchens' table. Thomas shrugged and gave up. That was good, because... Draco had the sudden strange feeling that if he ever were to dance on tabletops it would be with someone else. Someone–

“You've really changed.” Longbottom, who had been off to the loo, sat down next to Draco. “The patching, playing Quidditch together, helping to find missing people, giving presents, advocating house-elf rights and now even Mrs. Norris likes you.”

“Only because I bribed her earlier to leave me alone,” Draco admitted, stiffly petting the skeleton cat between her ears. “Guess she never got a Christmas present before.”

“Guess not,” Longbottom agreed. His expression turned thoughtful. “Do you ever think it's wrong to have fun at Hogwarts when so many of our friends died here?”

“Yes, sometimes. But then I think that Vincent and the others would want me to be happy, so I try my hardest to be alive – for them.” Longbottom nodded solemnly and Draco forced a smile. “And not everyone who's dead is unhappy. Look at the ghost lot over there.”

Indeed was a number of Hogwarts ghosts apparently playing some sort of loud game in the far corner of the stone-walled hall. It looked like charades.

Longbottom munched on a scone and grinned. “Yeah, look at Nick go. Good thing he's better now: Last time I spoke to him he was devastated because he had been once again turned down by the Headless Hunt. Shame, really.”

Draco choked on his Butterbeer. “WHAT?! By the what now?”

“The Headless Hunt.” Longbottom eyed him curiously. “The ghost hunting party for the beheaded? I thought it was common knowledge.” He shrugged. “But maybe just among Gryffindors as Nick's our– Hey, where are you going?”

“'scuse me!” Draco had absolutely no time for courtesy, neither for Longbottom nor for Mrs. Norris.

The Headless Hunt. A fucking ghost hunt and he had spend months looking for any clues, so that he could bring back the missing baby! Even though the solution had been under his nose all this time! Shit shit shit.

Draco ran past the band playing 'o, how they pound, raising their sound, o'er hill and dale'. All colours blurred. How could he have been so blind?

In his hurry, Draco tripped and stumbled right into the middle of the ghost game, walking through several participants, which earnt him a number of boos.

“I'm sorry! I didn't mean to. I just need to speak to Sir Nicholas.”

The resident ghost of Gryffindor tower gave him a curious look at that. “With me? What for, pray tell?”

“Yeah, if we could just...,” Draco motioned to the side and the ruff-wearing nobleman followed him.

Draco had never actually spoken to Sir Nicholas and thus he knew that he should be polite, but the words simply tumbled out of his mouth. “I need to find the Headless Hunt. Do you know where it is?”

Frowning, the ghost crossed his arms over his chest. “I cannot possibly fathom what you would want with them and I have certainly no inclination to talk about that frivolous group.”

“It's actually your help I need.” Draco's inner Slytherin had kicked in and apparently the flattery helped, as Sir Nicholas twisted his moustache and nodded slowly.

“Very well, what is it you are enquiring about?”

“The Wild Hunt,” Draco said breathlessly, “I need to find them and I thought that the Headless Hunt would be able to point me in the right direction as they are also a ghostly hunting party. But you probably know where I have to look?”

“Ahem, I see. As it happens I do not know where The Wild Hunt resides. However, Patrick – that is Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore to you – has at one point in our long acquaintanceship insinuated to have crossed paths with their bunch. I deem he would know where to encounter them.”

Draco's heart pounded in his chest. Could it be? After all this time? “And would you... be willing to help me contact this Sir Patrick?” He held his breath and prayed.

“I suppose,” the ghost granted.

Throwing all caution to the winds, Draco pressed on: “How long will that take? The Wild Hunt only appears during Yuletide.”

Sir Nicholas looked a bit annoyed upon being hastened, but he still replied with: “As soon as tomorrow I would think. Find me in the Great Hall after dinner.”

“I will! Oh, thank you so much!” The relief and hope that flooded Draco made him temporarily forget that he was talking to an incorporeal being and he tried to shake his interlocutor's hand. “Ah, sorry! I just– This is marvellous! Thank you Nick, I mean, Sir Nicholas, I mean– Thank you!”

Yes! A thousand times yes!

As he returned to the others, Draco was light as a feather and upon arrival, he climbed onto the table which was answered by loud shouts of encouragement by his peers. Screw it all. He would finally find what he'd been looking for and now he wanted to dance on tabletops.

In the distance the band played 'telling their tale'.

***

It was cold. Icy wind was whipping Draco's hair into his eyes and he cast another Warming Charm. Yet the sea spray carried up by the stiff breeze went a step further and had Draco clammy all over.

He took one measured stride forward and looked down the steep precipice. The light of the full moon reflected from the Strait of Dover made the White Cliffs^[1] glow even in the middle of the night.

This was where they would come.

Draco shuddered and stepped back. He was nervous.

According to the information that Sir Nicholas had gathered from the Headless Hunt, The Wild Hunt ritually passed by this place on New Year's Eve; here, on the crossroads between water and land, continent and island, in the hour that was not just between days, but between years.

He checked the Muggle wristwatch Father Weasley had given him for Christmas. Five minutes to midnight. Now all that was left to do was wait.

It started with a hum in the air, then suddenly there was a deafening thunderclap and in the distance a cloud appeared over the waters. In it Draco could make out dozens and dozens of people of all ages – many on horseback, many afoot, some dressed in strange costumes, some almost naked –, accompanied by flocks of dogs, pigs, seafowl and owls. Straining his eyes against the increasing onslaught of snowflakes and hail, Draco saw the leader: a single tall rider on a white horse accompanied by a flying woman.

They were closer now and finally Draco could hear them too: noise, terrible, screeching, maddening noise. Rattling, screaming, hooting, yelling, wailing, groaning and grunting from a hundred throats. Followed by alluringly wild melodies and the din of thousands of sweet silver bells. And over all that the “Ho ho ho! Out of the way, get off the road, so that no one is abased!”, warning everyone to look away.

Well, Draco would not look away this time. He couldn't. There was a baby to save.

With the ghost procession coming ever nearer, Draco felt in equal shares terrified and euphoric.

One whole year he had been searching. One bloody year.

They were close enough now to make out single riders and Draco started scanning for a tiny bundle.

What his eyes found though, made him inhale sharply and he took an involuntary step back. Impossible.

There, riding in the last third of the approaching Hunt, were familiar faces.

He had seen their bodies lined up in the Great Hall. He had visited their memorial sites. He had read their names on the plaques many times.

“Vin...” Draco slapped a hand over his mouth, forcing himself to swallow the name. If he called his dead friend now, what good would it do Vincent? He would have to leave The Wild Hunt and be what? A ghost at Hogwarts?

At least with them the big boy was in good company (as proven by currently riding behind that giggly Gryffindor girl Brown). At least Draco hoped that. Had he first thought The Hunt was of terrible and demonic nature, he had found out that this was just a misconception; that the cortège was actually a place of cheer and laughter (and he was aware of the irony).

Put off his stride by the discovery of his dead schoolmates, Draco had lost valuable seconds and now the vanguard had reached him.

He braced for engagement, but was greeted with none, as the leaders simply rushed past him. Fuck.

His gaze jumped between the receding crone and the group of late Hogwarts students. He wanted to look at them, just a moment longer, but he also had to find a baby in the babel of riders and he had to do both quickly as The Hunt had already passed him by half now.

But then the world just stopped.

There was no more wind, no sound, no nothing. Only a face. A laughing face framed by tousled black hair, with piercing green eyes behind round glasses.

Even though Draco was sure he had never seen him before, he knew him. That boy over there on the pale palomino was... everything. Plain and simple. He was everything.

Their eyes met over the chasm and locked and suddenly Draco knew without a doubt that he had actually come for him.

The raven-haired rider frowned and pulled on the reins, making his ghost horse prance in a half circle. It seemed as if he considered coming down and Draco wished desperately he would. Yet a moment later, the huntsman went on, urged on by the gang of Draco's deceased peers.

Draco had to do something. It was now or never. Every fibre of his being told him so.

This was it then.

...ask for her blessing Persephone:
Your name, your heart's name, can set you free...

He steeled himself, put his hands around his mouth like a funnel and yelled into the cacophony: “Persephone, I ask for your blessing!”

Instantly, it was eerily quiet. The whole procession had stopped in its tracks and at the front, the white-clad crone turned around in mid-air, her hair floating around her like a silvery cloud.

There was no reply. She simply waited. They all waited, in uncanny silence.

Hundreds of dead eyes were on Draco and he felt goosebumps crawling up his neck.

'The name,' he reminded himself, 'tell them the damn name.'

The problem was, Draco didn't have a name to tell. Even though there was no doubt in his mind that he had come to meet the laughing rider, Draco had no idea what to call him.

Minutes passed. Horses pawed the air, huffing. There was quiet coughing.

Draco wrecked his brain, trying frantically to come up with something. His eyes were on the dark-haired rider who seemed to be staring back at him with the same level of intense desperation, his lips moving inaudibly.

Something. Something. God, Draco, think!

A low tune made Draco flinch and as his eyes jumped back to the vanguard, he saw that The Hunt's leader had given the moving-on signal.

The procession started departing again, fast.

“No! Don't leave! I still have to say... Give him back! Please give him back to me!” Draco ran dangerously close at the edge of the cliffs, stumbling at every second step as he almost hysterically tried to catch up with his rider.

Draco reached a ledge. There was no more going forward, only air and water.

No, it couldn't end like this! Draco needed... he needed...

The Wild Hunt was past.

...they say you can die when your heart breaks. Draco never believed it. But now he did.

Tears, more painful than a thousand Crucios, choked him as he despairingly watched the fading features of the only thing that mattered in the world.

The green-eyed boy turned to look at Draco over his shoulder, his face veiled in abysmal sadness. The breeze picked up his fringe and momentarily, a lightning-shaped scar was visible.

“Come back, Scarhead!” Draco cried – and just like that, everything clicked into place. It just felt right.

The Wild Hunt was disappearing in the distance, but one lone figure came careering back to the cliffs.

Several feet from the ground the rider jumped off his horse, which turned tail and followed the cortège.

The moment he landed, a whole world of memories came flooding back. The fights, the longing, the everything.

He was finally back.

They stared at each other for a long second, both marvelling about the miracle that brought them back together.

“Merry Christmas, Potter,” Draco laughed watery. At long last.

“It's New Year's, you prig,” the other boy returned tenderly, wiping gently a tear from Draco's cheek.

And Harry Potter smiled.

Chapter Text

Crack.

“Harry!”

“Harry!”

Ronald and Hermione had Apparated next to Draco, missing the edge of the cliff only by mere centimetres. Not that they cared about that. Or about the fact that Potter had been back for what, a minute, and they were already monopolising him?! Both of them stormed forward and buried their long lost friend in a tight hug.

Draco, nerves still frayed from the recent happenings, felt a sting. All he wanted was to get in on that cuddling, but all he could do was stand awkwardly on the side. Even though he had fought for a year to keep the memories of Potter, even though Draco's feelings were in free fall – to Potter, they were Patcher comrades at best. Nothing had changed for him. Draco might get a thank-you-pat on the back and a gold star, but that would be it. What had he thought would happen once Potter was rescued?

The skin where Potter had warmly touched Draco's cheek was slowly growing cold again.

Oh Draco, what did you fantasise about? Wake up, boy, nothing will change.

This was the end of the journey.

Draco crossed his arms over his chest, schooling his face to look indifferent. “Got your memories back then, did you? And how, pray tell, did you know where we were?”

While her husband continued squeezing Potter and telling him, how happy, happy, happy he was to see him and how sorry, sorry, sorry that he had forgotten about him, Hermione, with star pins holding back her hair, turned to Draco. She looked a bit flustered. “I put a Tracking Spell on you, actually, and when the memories came back, we knew you had to be behind it, so we came to find you.”

“Did you now.” Draco raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Well, you were always jetting around the globe and I thought, just in case, if something were to happen to you... It was really just a precaution for your safety. ” She squirmed under his glare. “But I should have asked you first.”

“That you should have,” agreed Draco. His gaze grew soft as it wandered back to Potter. Merlin, Draco could spend the rest of his life simply looking at this heinous hairdo.

The saved Saviour's eyes locked on Draco's.

Wow, either Hermione's hair pins were zooming around them or Draco was in the middle of having vivid hallucinations of sparks flying.

Draco quickly looked away. Oof, he would have to do a much better job to rein in his emotions.

“I can't believe you are back! I can't believe you were gone! What happened to you?” The Weasel had to raise his voice over the tail of the storm.

“I'll tell you – but maybe not here? It's a bit cold.” Which was absolutely true. Especially in Potter's case who was merely wearing a rumpled dress shirt with rolled up sleeves, but no cloak.

Draco cursed himself inwardly and quickly cast a Warming Charm on the underdressed boy, while rushing forward to wrap his own winter cloak around Potter's shoulder.

Ronald simply furrowed his brows, barely moving out of the way. “Right, sure. Sorry, mate. But how are you not ice on a stick by now with what you're wearing?”

“Hunt magic,” the former huntsman answered casually, yet when Draco made a move to back away, Potter grabbed his wrist, while continuing to smile at Ronald.

“Should we go to The Burrow, then? They are so worried. We all got our memories back at the same time and of course, everyone wanted to come right away, but we didn't know what condition you would be in, so Ron and I came first, but now that you're alright – you are alright, Harry, aren't you?” Hermione gushed all this out without stopping to take a breath.

“Yes, I'm fine. But, as you just pointed out, everyone got their memories back and they're probably swarming The Burrow where they'll suspect me to be. I don't fancy an exclusive with Rita right now, so let's go to Grimmauld Place, the four of us.”

Four. Draco blinked. He had been included.

Then he quickly nodded as he realised, he was being eyed questioningly. “I know how to get in.”

Draco's heart sank a bit. Grimmauld Place was Potter's house. Draco had forgotten about it. Of course, he would have to move out immediately... He straightened his back. Draco would gladly live on the street if that meant Potter was back.

“Great.” Potter turned on the spot, fingers still tightly around Draco's wrist, and Apparated them both neatly onto the doorstep of number twelve.

He opened the door before Draco could stop him. “Er, Potter, there's something–” Draco didn't get to finish the sentence as he was a) accidentally knocked into a preceding Potter by the arriving Golden Couple and b) stunned speechless by the way the entrance hall currently looked: on the formerly empty left-hand wall next to the kitchen entry flaunted now a beautifully painted phoenix, not quite moving, but with tiny sparks continuously falling off the underwing. There were also what appeared to be fine golden chains woven around the picture. Those were actually three phrases, repeated a thousand times in golden ink: Dumbledore's Army – The Order of the Phoenix – Potterwatch.

Guess that meant that Potter's stuff reappeared alongside its owner. How convenient.

“Luna did this,” Potter pointed out and shrugged off Draco's cloak. He frowned at the coat stand that Draco had bought last February. “This is new though.”

“Yeah, about that–” Draco tried.

“Tea!” the Weasel interrupted, making weird eye signs at Draco. “I'll make some nice calming tea. How about you all sit down in the living room and er, don't freak out meanwhile, yeah?” He rushed off.

“Sounds good?” Potter looked a bit bewildered, but went anyway in the suggested direction, followed by Hermione who up until then had been busy sending a Patronus message to The Burrow.

Fuck. Draco really couldn't catch a break here. “Wait! I can explain!”

“Oh.” was all Potter said, when he entered the living room currently littered with Christmas wrapping paper and stacked dirty dishes. Draco had been too nervous to do much but pace the floor this last week. He certainly didn't have a mind for cleaning up.

“May I?” Hermione didn't wait for an answer and was already casting a simple Clean-Up Spell that left the room in a neater condition. Then she ignited the fireplace and sat down on the 'guest couch' as Draco had dubbed it, a three seater on the left side of the room.

Draco shifted uncomfortably. Normally, he would have sat himself next to the witch. After all, this had been his home for the last year; but if he acted that way, Potter would probably lose it. For him, Draco was an intruder in his home.

Sighing silently, Draco went to sit in the rarely used armchair in the corner.

“Er...” Hermione blushed crimson and Draco, remembering her and Ronald's make-up session after their Christmas fight, swiftly changed course and sat instead in the love seat across the witch and the fire.

Concurrently Potter raised an eyebrow, giving them both strange looks. Yet Draco refused to talk about their friends' sex life in their living room. It was difficult enough to explain that it was their friends now... and their living room.

“Tea's ready.” Weasel to the rescue. What were the odds.

Ronald, balancing a small tray with biscuits and a teapot on one hand, whooshed his wand to float cups to every one of them.

Draco watched as Potter skilfully caught the handle of his mug in flight. His silhouette was soused in warm colours from the firelight. He looked good, hell, he looked great. Much better than the last time Draco had seen him. Gone were the dull pallor and the dark circles. Potter had filled out as well, not resembling a starving teenager all that much anymore. Healthy, he looked healthy, Draco concluded. 'And attractive', added an unbidden voice in his head that he pointedly ignored.

He had been looking for a sad boy. What he had found was a grown man.

“These are not my cups,” Potter remarked as he turned his peacock-shaped mug in his hand.

“Ah, no, those are Draco's.” Weasel put his foot in his mouth and didn't even notice. His wife next to whom he had just slumped down, rolled her eyes. She of course had caught on to the precarious situation they were in.

“Draco's,” Potter dead-panned, his gaze jumping between the three of them. “Okay, maybe best if you start.”

Then he traversed the room and planted himself next to Draco, pulling up his (holy shit!) bare feet and sitting cross-legged on the love seat. His knee came to lie on top of Draco's thigh, who simply stared. What was going on? Meanwhile Potter had both hands around his cup of tea and looked totally at ease.

Hermione blinked once in surprise to Potter's choice of seat, then cleared her throat. “You must understand, after The Wild Hunt took you, we all sort of forgot about you.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“Everyone but Draco. He could still remember you because you once were the owner of his wand for a short time and that made up the most powerful connection.”

Draco wrinkled his nose. Right. He had forgotten about the last of Potter just after talking to Ollivander and hadn't had time to tell the others about the new development in the 'remembering ability' department. Maybe not the best moment to bring that up though. After all, what the old wandmaker had insinuated, was nothing short of... Draco blushed hard and hid behind his teacup.

In the meantime, Hermione went on: “But even he started to forget about you gradually. Therefore, we didn't remember anyone living here and as we needed a space for research, Draco thought it would be best if he stayed here, so he, er, moved in?” She ended in a question, carefully watching for signs of an impending eruption.

Nothing happened though, other than Potter turning to Draco with a flabbergasted expression. “You live here now?”

“Ah, I, only temporary,” Draco stuttered and not just because of the difficult topic at hand but also for the closeness to those green eyes gleaming at him. Was it really hot in here?

“I don't mind,” commented Potter lightly and smiled. Was the air in here getting thinner? “At least this way Kreacher wasn't alone. Where is he by the way?”

“Hogwarts,” the Ronald-Weasel contributed, slouching on the couch. “Got himself a girlfriend, can you believe it? Winky. But you're not so far off yourself now are you?” He winked conspicuously at Draco, who felt himself pinking and wished he could hurl hexes at this dimwit. At least it was reassuring that the 'boyfriend' running gag still seemed amusing to the redhead, even after remembering everything.

“Anyway,” Hermione quickly cut in, bless her, “we, that is Ron, Draco and I, have been looking for clues to free you from The Hunt and this was our research headquarters. Also,” and at this she gave Potter such a stern look that Draco could feel him flinch where their legs touched, “Draco is our friend now, so you better treat him nicely.”

Draco choked on his tea and coughed. With watering eyes he stared at Hermione, who in turn still looked at Potter as if saying 'or else'. That, Draco had not expected: that the Golden Couple would be on his side, even with Potter back in their midst.

“Oh, I intend to treat him very nicely,” Potter grinned and Draco wondered, if maybe his own face had caught fire by any chance. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was Potter being ironic? He must be being ironic.

That was the exact moment, Howard decided to make his royal entrance as he jumped up to lie down between Potter's crossed legs.

“So, you live here and you have a cat,” Potter noted, amused, and ruffled the cat's fur.

Contrasting against the black cat, Draco noticed a stained handkerchief wrapped around Potter's wrist. He started. Wasn't that a tiny D in the corner? It couldn't perchance be the one he'd given Potter the summer before last? No, impossible. What a thought. “I also have an owl, upstairs. This is Howard.”

“Hello, Howard.” Potter didn't take his gaze from the cat when he added: “You have nice eyes.” Was this an innuendo at the resemblance or just a random comment? Despite the camomile tea, Draco felt his nerves rattling.

“Well, we can fill you in on all the little details later, but first let's hear from you. What was it like riding with The Hunt?” Hermione took up the thread of the conversation.

“Actually,” Draco interrupted, just remembering, “I have something to help with that. Accio Potter's present!” They heard a few clanking noises from upstairs and then a square object swished into the room, landing in Draco's hand. “Here.” Draco felt very silly. “It's not wrapped and it's not quite finished. I forgot about you before... anyway, Merry Christmas, Potter.” It was a relief being finally able to say those words.

“You got Harry a present?” Ronald leapt to his feet and came over to look at the item. “When did you buy that?”

Draco fidgeted and pretended to take a sip from his already empty cup. “I made it. During the year. I thought... I mean, I hoped Potter would be back by Christmas and so... anyhow, it's meant to be useful.”

“It's beautiful,” Potter said quietly, turning the pages of his new scrapbook. In it were pictures of things that had happened while he had been away. Draco had learnt how to use a camera just for that.

Hermione had crossed the room and stood now behind the love seat leaning onto Potter's right shoulder, while Ronald perched on Potter's left side on the armrest.

Potter looked up. His eyes shone. “Thank you. That's a very thoughtful present.” Then he grinned and snickered. “Actually, I also have something for you. From last Christmas. I planted it with the house-elves at the kitchens in Hogwarts.”

Draco didn't know what to do with himself. He had always happily denied all questionable feelings for Potter while pouring his efforts into the scrapbook, but Potter... had even got him a present for last year, when they were nothing but co-Patchers? What was Draco supposed to make of this?

“What's so funny?” the Weasel queried, turning a page without even asking. The pictures on it showed Teddy.

Potter had a quiet laughing fit, shaking all of them, as they were each touching him with some part of their bodies. “It's just hilarious, because, haha, I got you, I got you a Remembrall!”

The room erupted in laughter. A bloody ball that reminded you when you forgot something! The irony! Furthermore, what a fun throwback present – Longbottom's Remembrall and Potter's first flight were their shared history after all.

“I could have definitely needed that,” Draco wheezed.

“Me too,” Potter agreed, which caught Hermione's interest.

“What? Why?”

“Because,” the Chosen One sobered, “you guys weren't the only ones who forgot. I did, too. It's part of The Hunt's magic. Makes you forget your life so you don't want to go back to it.”

Hermione nodded. “Is that why you didn't even try to come with us when we met you at the barn in Switzerland?”

Potter's face darkened. “Yeah, I mean, no, I mean, sort of. It's complicated. But I didn't know who you were then.” His gaze bore into Draco and the latter became once again acutely aware of just how close they were sitting. “I would have come back with you if I had known.” It was as if Potter was talking exclusively to him at that moment.

“Okay,” said Draco faintly.

“Thank you, all, for coming for me though. I'm glad you saved me. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't bad riding with The Hunt. In fact, it was rather fun and I,” Potter faltered for a moment, “I'm sorry I didn't get to say goodbye.”

“To The Wild Hunt?” Ronald frowned.

“To my friends.” Draco and Potter exchanged a look. Something unseen, unsaid was passing between them. Yes, this topic they needed to talk about. Maybe not tonight though. After all, their favourite ginger was momentarily very happy to have his best friend back and didn't need a damper by hearing about his dead brother riding with The Hunt.

“Hermione, what is that?” gasped Potter suddenly, as his gaze was caught by a blinking on his shoulder.

That was Hermione's wedding band. Uh oh.

“Oh, er, that, oh Harry, we're so sorry! We just, we didn't remember you and and, oh God,” the young woman stammered, fumbling with the ring.

Potter went pale, then swirled around to scoop up Ronald's hand and gaped at the identical jewellery on his best mate's finger. “You got married?!”

“Yeah?” the redhead ventured helplessly.

“If it's any consolation: It was quite spontaneous,” Draco offered, which gained him a nonplussed stare.

“You were there?”

“Yes, well. Yes.” Draco held his chin up defiantly. No need to apologise.

Potter leant back with a huff. “I can't believe I missed your wedding!”

Maybe Draco was a bit peeved about Potter's reaction to the former's partaking in the latter's best friends' nuptials. Maybe that's why the meaner, older part of him resurfaced. “Oh and guess what else? Beauxbatons – Fleur – and Bill are expecting, so in summer they will have a... ba... by...”

Draco jumped up so quickly, he knocked the scrapbook (along with Howard) off Potter's lap and smashed his own tea cup on the floor. “Holy shit! The baby! I fucking forgot about the bloody baby!”

The couple gasped in shock, but Potter asked confusedly: “What baby?”

Draco ran his hand through his hair, completely upset. “There was a baby girl. In Sweden. The Hunt took her soul. I promised to bring her back. I went to the cliffs to get her. Oh God, what's wrong with me? How will I find her now?”

“You will. You found me three times, you can find her, too. Besides, I know she is in good hands. She's with my friends.” Potter's voice was calm and saved Draco from spiralling. If she was with the dead Hogwarts students, she was indeed not in danger, but still...

Distractedly Draco pointed his wand at the broken pieces. “I suppose you are right. I will look for her starting tomorrow.” A fixed cup wrapped in a snake sprang into his hand. “But it was only twice. Cadair Idris doesn't count, we missed you there.”

“Where is– never mind. I was talking about Windsor Great Park. On the park bench.”

Draco went very still. “What?”

Potter's gaze bore into Draco. “I was there, invisible due to Hunt magic.” The air was electric with the intensity of implication. “But I heard every word you said.”

I think I might have feelings for him.

The Weasel blinked, not understanding why the mood had changed so suddenly. “What are you– ouch!”

“Time to go home, Ronald!” Hermione dragged her husband from the love seat. She at least could read the room. “Good night, you two. Come by when you've settled everything, Tomorrow or the day after. There is no rush.”

“Hermio–!” The redhead's complaint was cut off when they Disapparated, leaving a roaring silence in the living room.

Draco found his eyes darting this way and that. He couldn't look at Potter. Shit. This was definitely not the way Draco had imagined confessing. In fact, he had not planned on ever saying anything about that at all.

That's why Potter had been acting so weirdly... Because he had known that Draco... This was beyond humiliating.

“It's super late, isn't it?” Draco laughed nervously. “You'll probably want to go to sleep. I know I do. And maybe take a shower? You reek,” he blabbered. “Well, I'll move out tomorrow, but do you mind, if I stay tonight? It's a bit last minute to go anywhere else.”

“Of course I don't mind. But–” Potter got up and Draco lost his nerves, when he saw a hand reaching for him in his peripheral vision.

“Great! Thanks! Good night!” And he all but ran from the room and up the stairs.

Slamming his bedroom door shut behind him, Draco leant against it, heart in his throat.

Bloody hell. It took a few moments for him to calm down.

Then he ran a shaking hand through his hair as he distractedly rummaged in his wardrobe for pyjamas. Too many thoughts at once ran through his mind and he found himself thinking in circles: He had got Potter back from The Hunt, which was good. He had been living in Potter's house for the last year, which was weird. Potter had heard Draco's monologue in the park, which was bad. But he had got Potter back from The Hunt, which was good. And he...

Maybe he should have drunk something stronger than tea.

Panicking wasn't helping though. He had to be pragmatic about this. So what if Potter had picked up on Draco's miniscule infatuation? If Potter had been going to make fun of it, he would have done it already, so Draco had nothing to worry about. Yeah, and if Potter felt he needed to be courteous for being rescued, well, Draco would not have to endure that for long, after all...

He sighed and strolled over to the window. Outside, the snow was gleaming innocently in the light of the street lanterns.

...after all, Draco would have to pack his things and move out of Grimmauld Place tomorrow (or today, as it was way after midnight by now).

He closed his eyes and put his forehead against the cold glass, suddenly very tired. Ever since receiving word from Sir Nicholas about a week ago, Draco had been wired. Too fidgety to sleep for long, too nervous to do something useful. He had been waiting, waiting, waiting and now that the wait was over, the restless energy driving him so far, had left him.

A slow smile spread across his face. Potter. Potter was back – and with him all the small and big memories. Their fights and their dancing, their crying and their laughter. All the images, having been ripped, over months, piece by piece from Draco's mind, had come back and now, with his lids closed, he could clearly see Potter's face before his inner eye. It was all there.

“Oh, er... I didn't know you were in here.”

Draco swirled around just in time to see a towel clad, still dripping Potter carefully close the door behind himself. With him came a cloud of the scent of Draco's best shampoo into the room.

“Potter!” Draco hissed scandalised and yet couldn't tear his eyes away from the well-toned amount of bare skin on display. “What do you think you're doing here?” And almost naked?

“Getting some clothes. You told me to shower.” Completely unfazed, the intruder went to dig through Draco's wardrobe as if... as if it was his.

It was as though scales were falling from Draco's eyes. How could he have been so blind. Of course Potter came in here nonchalantly like it was his own bedroom, because it was. Draco had just been too upset before to notice all the little things that had popped up where there had been nothing for a whole year: a stack of Auror books on the bedside table, pictures of the Golden Trio on the walls, two lonely holey socks on the floor. This was Potter's bedroom. Draco had been sleeping in Potter's bed...

Involuntarily Draco's gaze followed a single drop of water trickling down Potter's muscular abdomen. Upon realising, where exactly he was looking, Draco blushed and bashfully turned away, when Potter got ready to drop the towel.

“So, ahem, this is your bedroom then?” Draco barely recognised his own high-pitched voice.

“Ours, apparently.”

Draco blinked unseeing out of the window, his heart racing at the wording. “I didn't know it was yours. When I moved in here I had forgotten you used to live here.”

“It's not a big deal, really,” Potter grinned and gestured at the open wardrobe, “and it's nice to have a wider selection.” He tugged at the shirt he'd just put on. “Thanks for this.”

Draco inhaled sharply. The audacity! “That is my shirt,” he growled. Indeed, Potter was wearing Draco's old Quidditch training T-shirt, a school-issued uniformly black piece with the Slytherin crest on the left chest.

This seemed to amuse the boy who lived to drive Draco crazy. “So? You are wearing mine. That way it's fair, don't you think?” He wiggled his eyebrows at Draco who gaped first at him and then down his own front where, to his horror, he saw a gold and red Gryffindor crest. Draco must have grabbed the wrong shirt by mistake earlier.

He groaned and the other boy chuckled. “You didn't notice the wardrobe was a bit more cramped than usual?”

“Not really,” Draco admitted, embarrassment crawling up his neck, “I had my thoughts elsewhere.”

“I'm flattered,” Potter grinned. Idiot.

“Don't be. Not everything in the world is about you, Scarhead.”

“Maybe not, but this was.” Potter's light tone changed to a serious note. “Can we please just talk about this?”

Draco physically recoiled. “There's nothing to talk about.”

“Draco...”

“Ah, right, look at this,” Draco quickly diverted, crossing the room to stand next to the shirt thief and ignoring the hot lump in his stomach that had formed when Potter had called him by his given name. “This Invisibility Cloak is yours, isn't it? I've been wondering about that.”

“Yeah.” Potter's brows furrowed. “But if this was here, how could you not have known this was my bedroom? With all my things lying about. I have been wondering about that.”

They were almost standing shoulder to shoulder and Draco glanced quickly at Potter's face, before averting his eyes back onto the cloak. “Your things weren't here. Only this fellow. Every personal belonging that indicated your existence had been eradicated. You weren't even mentioned in any of the books about the war.”

Potter hummed thoughtfully and the sound reverberated through Draco in a way that made him acutely aware that he should be going somewhere else. Now.

As if reading his mind, Potter declared: “Well, it's late. I slept on the frozen ground for a year, I can sleep on the couch for now.”

That made Draco look at him, frowning. “You shouldn't have to. This is your house. It's your bedroom.”

“Yeah, but you have lived here longer now than I had before that." With that Potter turned to leave.

Before Draco could stop himself, he blurted out: “Harry... don't go.” He blushed crimson. Oh shit, did he really just...? “I mean, I mean – I will go. Yeah, you sleep here.”

“Or maybe,” Potter said in a low voice and shifted so he was facing Draco fully, “we can both sleep here.”

“That, that is a stupid idea,” squeaked Draco and tried to push past the former Gryffindor, but the latter put his right arm up to block Draco's way and leant closer.

“Actually, I think that's a splendid idea.” Closer, even closer.

Draco's back hit the wardrobe. “What are you doing?” he whispered.

“What I've been wanting to do since my birthday.”

With that Potter moved forward and closed the gap between them. His lips met Draco's with the heat of a thousand fires and the world exploded as Draco melted into the kiss. It was better than he could have ever imagined. Their lips slotted together perfectly as Draco put his arms around Potter's neck to pull him even closer, burying his fingers in those unruly black curls. Potter tasted like toothpaste and sunshine and Draco couldn't help but moan quietly as a hand cupped his cheek; as a thumb travelled down his jaw and tilted his head up to deepen the kiss. Draco combusted from the inside while Potter's left hand on his hip burnt a hole into him. Every playful nip, every press of tongue was answered, mirrored, enhanced. They were completing each other.

It was all Draco had wanted. For months and months he'd been in denial, but now he knew with crystal clarity that he was in love, that 'it was like that' after all. He could kiss Potter this way forever and a day.

Yet Potter, the eternal Gryffindor, suddenly dropped both his hands down to Draco's thighs and lifted him up, so that a surprised squeaking Draco had no choice but to instinctively wrap his legs around Potter's hips and hold on to his shoulders – and all that without breaking the kiss. The new position wasn't too bad though as the different angle enabled Draco to claim more of Potter's mouth. So, he plucked those terrible glasses off the other's nose, stored them blindly behind himself in the wardrobe and cupped Potter's face in an effort to kiss the living daylight out of him.

Just when Draco's pain receptors were reporting that there would probably be shelf-shaped bruises on his back tomorrow, Potter shifted them both and walked them the three steps to the bed while brashly grabbing Draco's ass, before dumping the blond boy onto the mattress.

Draco had no time to protest this treatment as Potter was already back on him, straddling his lap and kissing Draco as if he were the answer to all of Potter's prayers. Draco whimpered when Potter's right hand found his left wrist, pinning it down on the pillow, while Potter's left hand slipped under the borrowed Gryffindor shirt and made Draco shiver in anticipation.

Yes! ….no?

Draco broke free, coming up for air. “Time out.”

Potter hummed noncommittally and proceeded in trailing a line of feather-light kisses up Draco's jaw, towards his neck.

“I said stop, you plonker!” Draco shoved at Potter's shoulder which finally got him an annoyed grunt.

“What?” Hearing Potter's husky voice so close to Draco's ear did things to his nether regions. He shuddered.

“Maybe firstly take your hand out of my pants?” Potter's fingertips had indeed transcended Draco's waistband. “And then we need to talk.”

“Ugh.” Was Potter's immature response to that as he rolled off of Draco, landing on his back with a huff. Then he glanced at Draco apologetically. “Sorry, I just… it’s nice to finally be able to touch you.”

Draco's features softened immediately. He already missed the warmth and feeling of Potter's body and so he reached out without thinking, wrapping his fingers around Potter's wrist which earnt him a raised eyebrow.

Both a bit breathless and a lot dishevelled, they lay there, shoulder to shoulder, facing each other.

Potter was the first to break the silence. “So?”

So Draco was about to destroy everything that was good and wonderful in his world. He closed his eyes for a moment. It had to be done.

“So this was a mistake.”

Potter frowned and turned to lie on his side. His hand slid down to catch Draco's, interlacing their fingers. “Why would you say that?” he asked slowly, uncertain.

“Because you're not in your right mind.”

“Excuse me?”

Draco sighed and looked at the ceiling. There were stars now where there hadn’t been before. “It's called hero worship or transference – or so I read recently in an article about an obsessed fan of the Minister's. You transfer romantic feelings onto a person who has saved you from great peril. I guess you are especially susceptible because normally you are the one doing the rescuing. Add this to the fact that you think you know how I...” He swallowed and cleared his throat. “What I said in the park, about er, thinking of you, I didn't mean it. That is, you misunderstood.”

Potter nudged a bit closer, ruffling the sheets. “You were so brave in facing a dangerous supernatural phenomenon, but now you can't even look at me when you lie about your feelings.”

“I don't like you!” Oh snap, did Draco just give it away? There hadn't even been talk about 'liking' yet. Stupid, Draco, so stupid!

“Right. And I was just kissing myself silly,” replied Potter dryly.

“I was simply indulging you. You had a traumatic experience.”

“Oh?” Out of the corner of his eye Draco saw Potter grinning. “How about you indulge me some more then?”

A cheeky hand landed on Draco's stomach. He quickly shoved it away, albeit with silent regret. “May I remind you, that earlier you were the one who wanted to talk?”

Potter huffed. “Well, yes, but that was before you kissed me like there's no tomorrow. Draco, come on, this is ridiculous!” His face grew concerned. “Why do you keep pushing me away?”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“That's your name.” Potter frowned. “Also, you called me Harry as well. Earlier, when you–”

“Exactly my point! This isn't normal!” Draco tried his best to disguise his embarrassment as indignation. “We are Potter,” he pointed at the other boy, “and Malfoy.” He pointed at himself. “That is the state of our relationship. Surnames. That's how it's always been.”

“Quite a while, true. So maybe it's time to change this... relationship of ours.” Potter's index finger wandered distractingly over Draco's palm, causing goosebumps. “I like it when you call me Harry. I like you.” His tone was casual as if he hadn't just unhinged the world.

Draco's heart stuttered. “Now, look here, Potter–”

“Harry.”

“...Harry. As I tried to explain before, you just think you... like me. But that's simply your peabrain playing tricks on you.”

Potter (or was it Harry now?) ignored Draco and nuzzled his ear. “The only thing my peabrain is thinking about right now is kissing you; in fact I thought about kissing you every day since Windsor Great Park.”

Draco shifted a bit further away. “You said you didn't remember us during your time with The Hunt. So that was when you didn't know our history.”

“But now I remember everything and I still want you.”

Draco blinked rapidly. Why did he have to be punished with such a dense dunderhead? Could Potter – Harry – not understand that Draco was just trying to protect him from himself?

“And maybe I just find you attractive.” Harry added innocently and gently bit Draco's outer ear.

Draco shot him a sharp look. “Or maybe you just find me attractive, which is understandable but highly unlikely. Anyway – the point is: This,” he gestured between them, “is not happening.”

Harry rolled his eyes at that. “Would you stop fighting me on this? You like me. I like you. What's the problem now?”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut. It would be so easy. Why couldn't he let out his inner Slytherin and just seize the opportunity? But it would be so unfair for Harry... and so painful for Draco once the former woke up from his delusions. Draco opened his eyes, looking straight at Harry. “The problem is, you don't like me. You just think you do.”

“Do we always have to fight?” Harry resigned, but tightened the grip on Draco's hand.

“Apparently. Or you could just learn that I'm invariably right.”

That brought on a smile on that terribly handsome scarred face. “Ha, you wish.” He leered. “But if we're fighting about it anyway, we could just kiss some more?”

Draco swatted away a precariously wandering hand, yet couldn't suppress a grin. Good gracious, Harry’s perseverance had always been endearing; which was a problem now. “Would you stop it, you tosser?! You might not have had enough opportunities for this last year, but that doesn't mean–”

“Oh, I had plenty of opportunity.”

“...really?” Pause. Draco stared back at the ceiling. He needed a moment to stomach that. He had always thought that Harry would be totally temptation-free with a bunch of dead people.

Harry's features softened. “Nothing happened.” He reached out and turned Draco's chin so that he had to look at those green eyes. “Because my heart was set on you.”

It was all too much. The close succession of so many powerful feelings had Draco choking. “I don't understand. How can you even like me?”

“You're an asshole.” Okay. Not exactly the answer Draco had expected. “You always think you are right and that you are better than anyone else. You're a bully and petty and weepy. You have no backbone whatsoever and–”

Draco felt very much made fun of as his feelings were brutally hurt. He started to sit up. “You know–”

“I wasn't finished!” Harry firmly pushed Draco back into the pillow. “That's what I have thought about you for a long time. But then the war came and I saw you struggling and while at the time I mostly figured you deserved it, the tiniest drop of pity had mingled with my dislike. I know, that doesn't sound very romantic, but it wasn't back then. I'm simply trying to explain to you how it came to be that I would rather have a non-verbal, less-clothed conversation with you right this moment than convince you of my genuine feelings for you. But I guess things between us were never easy, so why would this be?”

He sighed. “Look, Draco, I admit I heartily despised you when we were younger and I can't even pinpoint exactly when that changed, but change it did. Maybe I was a bit slow on the uptake and didn't quite realise at first that it was, you know, romantic, but I figured it out eventually and when you're asking me now, what I like about you, the answer is: everything.”

Here, he took a break and smiled at Draco who stared at him with mouth agape. “If I had to be more detailed, I would say that I like your inner strength: How you face your mistakes and try to remedy them. I saw that S.P.E.W. membership badge in the bathroom; that's not mine. I like that you're smart, smart enough to find an unfindable Wild Hunt. I like that you are a good friend. Don't think I'll ever forget Hermione siding with you.” He winked. “I like your dry humour. You're really funny when you don't aim to hurt. I like how you can be forgiving – towards me for one – even when the world is so unforgiving towards you. I like that I can be myself with you and fight with you and laugh with you and cry with you and dance with you. Draco, I was blind not to see this sooner, but I see it now, I see you as you are and – I like you. Simple as that. The fact that you saved me is only an added bonus.”

Silent tears wet Draco's cheeks. Nothing had ever hit home so deeply.

He snivelled and wiped at his face. “Are you an actual idiot? How can you just bare your heart like that when I already turned you down like a hundred times? What's with that foolhardy recklessness?”

Harry grinned. “Well, for one, strictly speaking you haven't turned me down even once yet and two...” He lifted their still entwined hands between their faces, so that Draco could see the silvery scar on the back of Harry's hand. I must not tell lies. “You have no idea how many times I've looked at these lines this past year, wondering what they meant. Now that I remember their origin as a pink toad-y woman, I could do without them again. But when I was riding with The Hunt, I used to imagine I carved them in to remind myself to be true and brave. That's what I want to stick with – being brave and not lying about how I feel about you.”

Draco swallowed. “That's a nice story, Potter.” Harry gave him a stern look. “But maybe you've forgotten I have a 'scar', too?” Draco willed himself to twist their arms around so that his Dark Mark was facing the other boy. “What do you make of this one, I wonder?”

Harry's gaze only flicked shortly to the skull before running a thumb over it and stating with an unimpressed voice. “Yeah, nothing new. At least it doesn't say 'Draco loves Pansy' or something like that.”

“It... doesn't bother you?” It was incomprehensible. How could Harry be so cool about this blight?

Harry shook his head. “I even picked a pirate flag thinking of you – of this. You don't need to hide it. It's part of you.”

“A what? A pirate flag?”

“Long story.”

“Okay,” Draco conceded bewildered. “So, you are saying that you like me – even though I'm a quote unquote asshole and I have this and I squatted in your house rent-free for a year?”

Harry smirked. “I rather enjoy that you are in my house, Draco, and yes, I stand by what I said: I like everything about you. Even when you are prickly and difficult, like now.”

“Not very flattering,” Draco grumbled, yet he felt his heart swell. If he didn't want it to end up broken though, it was time to change tactics. “But alright, let's say it's true and not just a figment of your imagination – not sold on that one yet –, but let's assume it is so; how can you be sure I won't just accept your advances because you're the Harry Potter and I'm a social outcast who hopes to gain back favour with the public by being with you?”

At that Harry snorted and pressed a kiss to Draco's knuckles. “Are you quite done thinking up these ridiculous excuses?”

Draco glared at him. “Left your brain with The Hunt, did you? I'm an opportunist! You should know that best!”

“Right and what opportunist tells his presumed victim about his ploy beforehand, eh?”

“One that calculates you would say just that,” Draco snapped and turned his head away. The only thing ridiculous here was Harry who was just too thick to understand that there was no way for them to be– “Harry!” Draco squawked and fished the transgressors hand out from under his shirt.

The offender laughed and buried his forehead in Draco's shoulder. If only that cheeky idiot weren't so adorable. “Oh, come on. Do you really think I'd take you seriously at this point? First you say I have no brain then you call me smart enough to see through your ruse. First you say you like me, then you say you don't. Then you tell me I don't like you. And now it's all a scheme?” He tilted his head up, so he could look Draco in the eye. Their faces were so close now, Harry's lips brushed Draco's cheek with his next words. “I get that you're scared,” (“I'm not scared.”) “but aren't you tired of these games? Draco...” A soft kiss landed next to Draco's ear.

“But,” How was thinking suddenly so difficult? “you could never be sure...”

Harry leant over Draco and gently pecked him on the lips. “I'm sure.”

“But how?” Their breath mingled. So close, so close...

“You tell me. Why did 'Scarhead' work as a name to free me?”

Harry kissed the corner of Draco's mouth. It was hard to concentrate on anything other than that. “Scarhead is...” Draco shuddered.

“Mhm,” hummed Harry encouragingly as he slowly kissed a fiery trail along Draco's jaw.

“Scarhead is what I call you in my heart of hearts.” Draco swallowed, his body hyper-aware of every one of Harry's touches that had somehow turned off his brain-to-mouth filter. “For me it's a term of affection.”

Harry chuckled quietly. “Only you can turn an insult into an endearment.” He drew back a bit to better look at Draco, his pupils blown wide. “Proves my point though. Wouldn't have worked if you hadn't meant it. Now...” He leant back in.

Draco's brain was short-circuiting. “We're both boys!”

Harry didn't stop. “So?”

So? Hadn't there been an argument somewhere in that? “Wha-what about the others? People will not like us together. They'll say I hexed you.” Draco was grasping for straws now, not even sure anymore, as to why he was fighting at all, as Harry's lips were barely touching his, the tension unbearable.

“And you just told me, you'd seduced me to curry favour with the public. Draco, really, I never knew you were so insecure.”

Draco gave up. “Only you have this effect on me.” He pushed himself up and caught Harry's lips for a second, before pulling away which earnt him an annoyed groan from the other boy.

However, Draco had to be certain. “So, the fact that I'm male...?”

Harry's eyelids were heavy. “I don't care.”

“And that people will probably give you shit for dating me?”

“I don't care about that either.”

He looked so kissable. Draco was losing his mind as he whispered: “What do you care about?”

“You.” With that Harry had enough and pounced on Draco like a lion.

Draco's heart stuttered and his thoughts went mushy as their breath and their limbs mingled. Harry's hands were in all the wrong and all the right places. There was nothing outside their bedroom, there was nothing but Harry, Harry, Harry.

When they had to break apart for something so utterly unimportant as air, Draco whined, tightening his grip in Harry's hair so that he couldn't move away far.

These delectable lips up close suddenly reminded Draco of something. “What did you say?”

“Hm?” Their forehead leaning together, Harry had closed his eyes. “I didn't say anything.”

“At the cliffs. When you looked at me. I saw your lips move.”

“Ah.” Draco could hear the smile even in this one syllable. “I said:,” Harry lifted his head, so they were eye to eye, “'Call my name'. And you did, sort of.”

“And I did,” Draco agreed and pulled Harry down. “Welcome back, Scarhead.”

Chapter Text

Outside the window, snowflakes were falling gently and, against the light of the street lamps, were causing tiny shadows to dance on the bedroom walls.

It was the perfect backdrop for Draco's sleeping silhouette.

Harry tore his eyes away from the peaceful image and tried to get more comfortable. Or less comfortable really. Sleeping on the ground for a year had, despite the protective Hunt magic, not been the most enjoyable kind of bedding and right now Harry felt the bed too soft and too warm.

Yet he wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else in the world than right here, next to Draco.

Harry's gaze flickered back. He reached out and tenderly brushed a stray strand of blond hair off the other boy's forehead, marvelling for the umpteenth time that night at just how Draco Malfoy, former Slytherin bully with sharp tongue and sharp angles, could look so soft... and at the fact that Harry himself had taken so long to understand that he liked this softness – along with the sharpness.

It was no use. Harry couldn't fall asleep tonight with everything running circles in his mind and with temptation lying right there at his fingertips. Maybe he should rouse Draco for another round of kissing...

Harry sighed inaudibly and slipped out of the bed, carefully making sure not to wake Draco. Although the blond boy looked healthier and overall better than the last time Harry had seen him, the dark circles under Draco's eyes spoke volumes about the (non-)amount of sleep he'd been getting lately. So maybe it was better, not to disturb him now.

Before closing the door behind himself, Harry cast a final gaze at the reassuring rise and fall of his boyfriend's chest.

Grinning, he walked down the stairs. Boyfriend. Draco would probably have a fit if he knew that's how Harry thought of him. He'd say something along the lines of it being an uncouth term or so, surely, and suggest 'paramour' or the like. Harry snickered at the thought. As long as they were something Harry couldn't care less how they'd label their relationship.

He reached the kitchen and fumbled with the kettle. Making tea, sleeping in comfortable beds, even showering earlier – all those things were familiar in a way and yet they felt foreign. He really had lived an entirely different life these past months.

Harry scrunched up his nose. Showering had been a good idea though. Draco had been right – Harry had reeked a bit of horse and such. Draco however smelt fantastic, of lemon balm. Inhaling deeply, Harry sighed; it was nice to wear Draco's shirt, his scent. The former huntsman blushed slightly at thinking how the other boy was wearing Harry's shirt at this very moment.

Returning to the task at hand, he had to look through various cupboards before he found the mug he'd been searching for, as all the interior of the cabinets had seemingly doubled. Probably a side effect of all of Harry's things disappearing and then reappearing; after all, Draco had also filled the place, to make it his own.

Draco living in his house had come as a surprise but not a shock. It felt right.

Harry was noticing Draco's presence was everywhere – ranging from the diverse array of pottery around the whole house, to the new (partly Muggle!) clothes in the wardrobe to the world map full of Hunt clues pinned to Harry's (and now Draco's) bedroom wall. It was strange yet eternally soothing to see their innate themness, represented by their things and order, to fit so seamlessly in this shared space. It was as if it had been meant to be that way: posh French cuisine recipes next to Aunt Petunia's old cookbook; perfect chaos, perfect harmony.

Snagging one of Draco's expensive-looking pyramid tea bags from the sideboard, Harry leant against the kitchen table. He turned the mug in his hand until the tiny people in the picture were fully visible. Sleeping in a heap of arms and legs was the fifth year's DA.

Harry slowly ran a thumb over the familiar scene.

There, cuddling with Picture Parvati, was Lavender, face still pretty and unscarred. Back in school Harry had constantly thought her a bit silly. He knew better now. Yes, she was still a giggler, but she was also smart and caring and brave and wonderful.

He would miss her.

His eyes moved on to Colin who was barely in the photography as he'd been the one to take it selfie-style. Only half of his face was seen, sleeping in the upper corner of the mug, while drooling down the side. It was ironic how small Colin was the biggest in the shot now, because of perspective. Harry smiled. Actually, Colin had always been a giant, in his heart.

He would miss him.

Gaze roaming on, Harry found a little white dot. As a well-timed coincidence, Hedwig was perched on top of Mug Harry's shoulder. She must have had just delivered something at the moment they'd taken the picture. Harry petted her with his pinky and the owl, as the only one awake on the mug, blinked affectionately at him. What a brave protector she had been to him, what a loyal friend.

He would miss her.

A few bodies over were entangled Fred and George, mouths open and snoring. All along they'd been a double deal. Witnessing them apart after the war had been like meeting them all over again and Harry had realised that he liked them both for different reasons. Fred's impish protectiveness of his friend Seeker had really caused quite the uproar, but in hindsight Harry was thankful. The open cheerfulness of Fred’s had made Harry feel welcome – be it back in first year at Platform 9¾ or at The Hunt. He was one of the best people Harry knew.

He would miss him.

Crabbe wasn't on here. Of course not. How weird to think that he should be. Maybe Harry could ask Draco for a picture of their (newly) mutual friend...? He would have to talk with Draco about the gang eventually, about Crabbe. Harry sighed. Even with the memories of Crabbe's character in life back, Harry could not resent the bulky boy anymore. After all, Harry had been with Ember and Ember, though dark and eerie at times, had turned out to be a true friend. Harry would not forget that.

He would miss him.

He would miss all of them – Dreamer and Scoffer and Lightning and everyone. Harry closed his eyes. He had had no chance to say goodbye. Again.

Pressing the hot cup against his forehead, Harry let the heat distract him from the aching in his chest.

It was pointless to wonder about his deceased friends. The Hunt had moved on and they had gone with it to who-knew-where. They would not meet again. As it should be. The living and the dead were of separate worlds.

But knowing the gang was happily frolicking somewhere out there, living their best death – that lifted a part of Harry's heavy guilt from his shoulders. He knew without needing proof that he would not have nightmares about them again. Being (almost) dead for a while had made his life easier somehow.

Harry tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, unseeing. Living with The Hunt had put things back into perspective that he hadn't even had noticed were off-kilter. Guilt was only one of many topics he would have to mull over.

Then of course there was the whole thing with Draco.

“Draco...” Harry said slowly into the empty room, tasting the sound with his tongue. Without a doubt, Malfoy had turned into Draco now; there was no reversing it. Still the name felt foreign and Harry's stomach fluttered at remembering how Draco in turn had called him 'Harry'.

How bizarre it was to think that they, ever rivals, always fighting, had kissed each other with fervour just an hour ago.

Grinning from ear to ear, Harry ran a thumb over his lower lip. The tingling sensation was still there.

It had taken all of Harry's Gryffindorness to head upstairs earlier and to nonchalantly step into his bedroom, where he'd known Draco must have been as there had been light shining from under the door. Just, he'd simply wanted to be close to Draco, no matter what.

In The Hunt Harry had learnt to take things a bit easier, but that didn't mean he'd been as confident as he had let on. His nerves had been fluttering like crazy.

And he hadn't planned to actually kiss Draco, it had just happened. But then it had felt so right, so perfect and he had been unable to stop. As if he'd never wanted to let go of Draco again, now that he had finally found him. At that moment, suddenly, it all had made sense somehow.

Back in The Hunt, when he hadn't even known his own name, Harry had felt the need to return to Draco after they had met at the barn. Harry's heart had known even before his brain had comprehended. And when Harry, due to Half's tea, had forgotten every last thing about his life, just one look at the Draco constellation had brought back his will to fight on and find that mysterious boy again. Even with exactly zero recollection of Draco Harry had never once wanted anyone else, although there had been ample opportunity. Like when he hadn't wanted to start anything with anyone at the moss folk's masquerade ball.

Somehow, deep inside his heart, deeper than any enchantment could reach, he had known that there was someone special out there. He had recognised Draco's handkerchief as important, even before he had remembered. Also, quite tell-tale, The Beginning, which supposedly showed you what you most desire, had looked like a dragon to Harry. If that wasn't a give-away, he didn't know one. He could admit it now: His heart had been set on Draco, even when he hadn't been consciously aware.

A feeling which had increased dramatically after their run-in at the park (during which Harry'd already been unusually flirty, for he had instantly felt something connecting). Slowly but surely, over months after the incident, he had found himself falling in love with the words, the mimic and the Draconess of the boy from the bench and secretly Harry had started imagining a life with him.

Harry bit his lip, grinning. Although the claim of having thought about kissing Draco 'every day' had been an exaggeration, Harry had daydreamt about it fairly often... the real thing was better than any fantasy though, by far.

His face turned sober. Even when the memories had faded after that, leaving nothing but the reassurance of his friends, Harry had clung to hope. That's why, when, on the cliffs, he had forgotten about Draco, yet remembered about the possibility of being set free by being called one's name, Harry had known instantly that that blond boy must be the right person, and that he should call Harry's name.

Weird how it was the snobbish, hurtful kid Harry had so often argued with who had won his heart. He put the mug down onto the table. Fitting together his before-, during- and after-memories was confusing.

When Harry's feet first had touched the ground on top of the cliffs, rushing back all the lost images, his feelings for Barn Boy had fought a silent battle with the status quo that 'Malfoy and Potter' had had when Harry had been stolen. The status quo of being something akin to friends and with Harry being unsure about his feelings' depth. It had been chaos in his head, however seeing Draco had somehow put Harry at ease and while all had been so much, almost too much, he had simply trusted that things would be alright with Draco there (and Ron and Hermione – crazy how those two had got hitched!).

Harry shook his head. At the cliffs, it had only taken Harry one look at Draco's tear-streaked face to make him realise that it really wasn't all that complicated. Losing their shared history had meant for Harry to be able to see Draco as he was, bare of his past. So Harry had finally understood that the boy he had fallen for was the same as the one he had been wondering about before riding with The Hunt. Only social norms, doubts and their problematic background had hindered Harry to recognise his blossoming feelings sooner.

Looking back now, it was blatantly easy to decipher that Harry had had a thing for Draco way before Christmas last year. All the signs had been there: Like mostly being more comfortable around Draco than others or giddily looking forward to seeing him at Hogwarts. Harry'd subconsciously always sought his company, for Draco somehow represented peacefulness, safety... feeling alive. Chuckling, Harry conceded that even his own portrait had known he liked Draco; Harry had just needed time to come to terms with that. He wondered now if maybe that's why he had bought Draco a Christmas present last year? Following the thought, Harry contemplated if possibly he had hoped to work up the nerve to ask Draco for a cup of tea sometime? Mhm, curious.

Although he would probably forever wonder about why exactly he fell so hard for a bad boy in the beginning, all the million little reasons why he would keep on falling were very obvious to him in this moment, standing in their kitchen.

Harry smiled to himself. That had a nice ring: their kitchen. Their bedroom, their house, their life together. Yes.

Of course they would fight a lot and compete and yell and whatnot, but they would also laugh and kiss and complete each other; because for a long time they'd been parallel-running lines and now that they had eventually collided, it turned out that their differences worked as each other's strengths, one's shortcomings evened out by the other.

Harry hadn't lied: He really didn't care what people would say about this surprising union (especially not the press; he could handle them, maybe give them a nice headline: 'love is love' or something). The ones that actually counted already approved by having supported Draco in his endeavours. (Though it was beyond weird to see Ron and Hermione so cosy with the former Slytherin.)

The Dark Mark didn't bother Harry either, not anymore. Because now it was related to Draco more than anything, also to sunshine-filled games of Capture The Flag and laughing moss folk.

Pensively, he traced the silvery lines on the back of his hand: with the new meaning of bravery, his Umbridge-caused scars weren't as bad anymore either. Maybe... The Hunt had been good for him, in a way?

Anyway, if anyone needed proof that Harry's feelings for Draco were real then Harry could tell them this: That, even with Fred, who shared such a likeness with his sister, right there in The Hunt, Harry had never thought about Ginny. But seeing Draco on the cliffs, at that point a virtual stranger, Harry had known that he needed to be with him, from the bottom of his heart.

“The heart's a weird thing,” he told Howard who had just wandered into the kitchen and was now eyeing his half-empty food bowl with a critical stare.

“Meow!” The cat, after disdaining the crumbs, left with his tail held high.

Harry chuckled. A black cat with green eyes. Who would have guessed Draco was such a romantic?

...or such a good kisser?

Replaying the scene in the bedroom earlier, Harry blushed. Coming to the realisation that he indeed had completely lost it for Draco Malfoy had spurred Harry into action without minding anything much. Being brave in the face of danger was one thing, but being bold in romantic things was normally not his forte.

Despite having been unsure if Draco had really meant what he'd said in the park, Harry had had reason to hope: by Draco's bashful blushing and his body language overall during their talk in the living room. But only when they had kissed, had Harry known for sure: by the way Draco had devoured him. No matter what ridiculousnesses had come out of Draco's mouth later – their feelings were mutual. And once Harry had realised that, it had come easy to say the words 'I like you'.

Though it had been beyond cute to see self-confident Draco floundering. Hadn't it been so sweet, the way he had tried to protect Harry from himself? Albeit mostly baseless, the fact that Draco had come up with so many arguments made Harry wonder just how long the other boy had thought about being with him...

Feeling his heart pound faster, Harry thought how lucky he was, how very, very lucky. Since, although it had been unnerving to argue about it, having Draco being so protective, gave Harry the still somewhat unfamiliar notion of 'home', of being cared for. Draco wouldn't toy with him, wouldn't hurt him – and it made Harry weak in the knees recalling how Draco had said they were 'dating'.

Harry was glad he had faced his doubts and opened the bedroom door. Maybe it had been knowing how close he'd come to lose Draco forever that had made Harry act. Or maybe it was the fact the The Wild Hunt with its laissez-faire attitude had rubbed off on him. Not to mention the knowledge of Draco's secret feelings. But most probably it was a mix of all of that.

Whichever it was, Harry was relieved that they had worked it out before awkwardness and old habits could muck this up.

Though old habits surely were hard to shake... Hadn't it been fun to tell Draco off (something Harry had often dreamt about in Hogwarts), only for Harry to pour his heart out after? A little payback for their school years. Rivals as they were, they had always been counterparts in a way, which meant in turn, they were a perfect match.

Harry smiled slowly. They would work out.

His mug was empty. The kitchen was empty. Harry was alone with his swirling thoughts.

He had told Draco that he 'liked' him. How soon was too soon to rectify this statement, to confess deeper feelings...?

Well, definitely not tonight.

Besides, his body told him that the consumed tea wished to be let out again.

Climbing back up the stairs, Harry entertained himself briefly with the thought of telling the portrait of Walburga Black in the cellar that her great nephew Draco was currently dating a blood traitor.

Harry still grinned as he opened the bathroom door and was flooded with thankfulness. Here was another thing he'd missed without consciously missing it: toilets.

Draped over the side of the bathtub, Harry found his dirty clothes and other belongings that he had simply left there after his shower earlier. He would probably throw them out, but not before quickly retrieving his wand from the heap. This one he still needed.

Also the handkerchief that Draco had given him for his birthday last year. It wasn't as pristine as it once had been, but it surely had served Harry well in reminding him of its former owner.

Thoughtfully Harry reattached the piece of cloth onto his wrist. He had got used to it and it felt strange to be without anything there. It was certainly weird without the Hunt bracelet next to it. Harry had only realised it (and Holle's crown) was missing when they had looked through Draco's scrapbook in the living room. The bracelet had disappeared with The Hunt. Maybe that was a good thing. That it wasn't here to remind anyone just how close Harry had come to actually dying. After all, there had only been one white knot left on it and if that had turned red as well... He shook his head. Better not to think about it... and better never to tell Draco, or anyone for that matter.

Harry shuddered. He'd been close to death so many times, but this occasion was different: He wouldn't have known, he wouldn't have noticed. He would have simply died, just like that. Brr, scary thought. Bless Draco for having a thing for equivocal nicknames and damn good timing.

Winking reassuringly at his face in the mirror, Harry couldn't help but be amused by the assortment of skin products, badges (S.P.E.W. and... was that the POTTER STINKS badge from fourth year?) and, even in here, random pottery.

Suddenly, going back to bed to snuggle his adorable idiot didn't seem like the worst idea.

He left the bathroom and went for the bedroom, but something caught his interest: There was the door to the little library Harry had started at Hermione's request, right before being taken by The Hunt.

There had been talk about research. Harry's curiosity was too strong to resist a peek, so with a regretful glance at the closed bedroom door, Harry slipped into the library instead.

The room was as Harry remembered it, although with significantly more books; many, many more books. They had migrated from the shelves onto the seating furniture and the floor. The fluffy rug in the middle was buried under dozens of dictionaries in different languages and a wide array of ink bottles (in various states of emptiness) as well as, surprisingly, Muggle pens.

In the dim light of a few magically protected, smouldering coals in the fireplace, Harry tiptoed between precariously stacked mountains of tomes towards the windowsill where a clutter of hand-written notes and various items indicated Draco's favourite resting place.

Perching on the window ledge, Harry picked up a colourful Christmas card and jumped when it immediately started singing a Christmas carol as he opened it. Good gracious, George! Harry breathed out slowly, willing his heart rate down, but then flinched again at the sound of soft rustling and an annoyed hoot. He only relaxed once his searching eyes had landed on Draco's eagle owl, who had been sleeping on top of a bookcase.

“It's okay, just some joke card,” he told the bird. Mhm, Hedwig would surely have liked the company. Now that he knew she was happy at The Hunt, Harry thought he would finally be able to accept a new owly companion in his life. He would treat Draco’s owl, this new owl, well.

His gaze wandered over the cramped room. It was almost tangible how much effort and time Draco had put into the research. All to find Harry. His heart swelled.

Over there were a few pictures in golden frames squeezed between the books: school-time Slytherins, a wedding picture of Ron and Hermione with the invitation sticking at the side and also Andromeda with Teddy, already so big now.

Harry'd seen it in the scrapbook before and been so utterly proud of Draco for reaching out to his aunt.

How much things had changed during this year Harry had been away... Yes, riding with The Hunt had had its perks and ultimately it had got him Draco, but… Just how many little moments were lost for Harry, here, with his friends in the real world. He clenched his fist, fighting down an upcoming wave of sadness. A year was so long. How much he'd missed...

A silent, rueful smile appeared on his face. Yes, he hadn't been here for all the important things, but Draco had made sure Harry wasn't missing out completely. A warm and fuzzy feeling bubbled up from his stomach. What a wonderful, thoughtful gift indeed.

Shifting to sit more comfortably, Harry tucked out a volume from under his arse and smirked when he recognised the title as one of Ron's favourite book series (The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle). Between the pages was a bookmark in the form of a library card to – his eyebrows shot up – Manor Library. Interesting. Draco would have to tell him about that... and also about the round reading spectacles Harry had just spotted under a little gold-adorned notebook, which he found highly amusing. Wasn't his Draco just the cutest?

Just for fun, Harry tried the glasses and found that Draco's eyes were way better than his own. Placing Draco's glasses atop of his head, Harry lazily opened the notebook.

The first page, in Draco's tidy penmanship, read the following:
- black bird's nest, green eyes, ugly glasses, lightning bolt
- insufferable, annoying, stubborn, stupidly brave, nauseatingly loyal, moderately clever
- no fashion sense
- passable Quidditch player
- pants at Potions

Harry snorted and then started cackling, doubling over, which earnt him another stern hoot from the owl. This was hilarious! So Draco!

Gently brushing the script with his thumb, Harry turned the page, finding more stories about the two of them together, worded in the same endearingly insulting way.

At some point the anecdotes bled into Hunt research. Harry merely scanned the many foreign names and cross references, only stopping here and there, to properly read a promising passage or bullet point:

The Wild Hunt is regularly connected to pending doom or death (Draco's side note: Paradox? Also said to bring good fortune! Same as the leader being described as a demon, yet protector of the poor?), for example in the form of Thestrals, ghost horses which left The Hunt. Mostly though, The Wild Hunt is known to be peaceful if not provoked. However it can happen that people with a strong affinity to death who witness the cortège are taken (Draco's side note: Death wish??? Feeling guilty?).

Harry swallowed at this. Maybe there had been... the tiniest bit... if he were very honest with himself... He shoved the thought away; even if there once had been some truth to it, now it certainly wasn't the case. He wanted to live, more than ever – with Draco.

Reading on, he found more trivia.

Leader: Mostly described as a man riding a pale horse, who has 20+ personae so far, among them Odin, the god of thunder and lightning, and Siegfried (Draco's side note: Said to use an Invisibility Cloak).

He hunts prey, but there are stories of him chasing a woman – his companion or even his alter ego in other tales (Draco's side note: Are the leader and the woman two sides of the same coin?) – or a folk of little forest people that might be fae or other beings (Harry grinned thinking about the moss folk). But at times he supposedly hunts down wrongdoers until they can no longer run.

Some say he can see the future with his right eye and that he can shape-shift into things or animals, particularly into a stag.

The image of a softly glowing stag materialised before Harry's inner eye. Berchthold sure had looked majestic in his shape-shifted form, walking through the woods. Bizarre to read about this enchanting moment so dryly in written words, but Draco had done a superb job in collecting all this information.

The crone: Known under 21 names so far (Draco's side note: Persephone!!!), some call her spring, guardian of the treasures of the interior of the earth, of weaving and of the doors between worlds; queen of heaven or indeed the goddess of hearth, birth and crossroads, even those between life and death.

Birth, eh? Here, Harry arched an eyebrow. Holle sounded much cooler on paper, but what had Half/Fred said? “She is life.” So there was something to it then.

In the upper corner of that page a quintain was scrawled, some parts underlined:
Child, oh child, remember this,
if they took you and you're amiss,
ask for her blessing Persephone:
Your name, your heart's name, can set you free
and The Hunt, The Hunt will have to let you be.

Harry leant back. Ah, so that was why. Earlier, in the heat of the moment, he'd simply taken Draco's explanation without questioning it, but later, lying restlessly awake, he's been starting to wonder. Scarhead as a nickname had made sense somehow; the fact that it had worked, if only said with enough conviction. Yet it had also been weird – why would an endearment function as a freeing, proper name? Now, a 'heart's name', that was something else. What had Draco mumbled again, looking so utterly flustered? “Scarhead is what I call you in my heart of hearts.” Harry blushed. Heart's name, indeed. Maybe he should go back to bed after all... well, only one more page?

People say she holds keys, literally and figuratively, as she is depicted as a helper to those in dire need, such as suicidal people.

She can supposedly shape-shift into a tree (Draco's side note: tree of life symbolism?) and is also otherwise heavily related to nature. Legend is that she has given mankind the gift of several helpful plants such as elder which is dedicated to her (Draco's side note: Put part of her powers into the plants?? Further research necessary), flax for weaving, wheat for spring or stinging nettles that are to ward off misfortune.

The latter can come upon you if she feels you deserve punishment, yet she is also known to give out rewards such as protection from fires.

Though there are also accounts of her being bad and luring men into her company to steal them away. Just as dark a part of the lore tells about stolen children – if they return at all, they are changed, some darlings of fortune, some changelings.

Sometimes, ancient human sacrifices are connected to Holle worship in Germany.

Well, she and The Hunt had stolen Harry all right. He frowned. Something about all this was tingling in the back of his mind. The information was only partly new and yet, somehow, Draco's research cast a new light on the things Harry had learnt while riding with The Hunt.

A loose, copied book page fell out of the notebook.

Associated with The Wild Hunt is also the fairy tale persona Mother Holle or Mother Hulda (Draco's side note was a cliff note version of the fairy tale and the words 'reward and punishment'). She is said to own a pond that is a direct connection to the Otherworld which many believe to be the realm of the dead. Rumour has it that those who wish to leave The Hunt can walk into the next life by entering the pond⁴².
------------------------------------------------------------
42 Unconfirmed accounts state that a part of Holle's Pond is kept at the British Ministry of Magic's Department of Mysteries, supposedly in the form of an archway.

He scrunched up his nose. Wow, yeah, that actually made a lot of sense. Hadn't BraveHeart/Colin said something about this? Seemed like Harry owed him an apology. The story hadn't been all that made-up in the end.

An old sadness tucked at Harry thinking of the loved ones he'd lost. So Sirius had literally fallen into the underworld, all those years back at the Ministry. The archway must therefore be the stolen piece of Holle's Pond and that's why the pond had had a Somewhen Glow for Harry. Even the whispering added up now; whispers behind the veil, bell chimes out of the pond. They were connected... somehow.

“HARRY!” A screaming Banshee couldn't have made Harry jump harder. “Harry! Harry!” The cracking voice sounded broken. “Harry!” It came from the bedroom, on the other side of the hallway.

Knocking piles of books over, Harry was across the room with lightning speed, yet, when he yanked the door open, a frantic Draco had already passed him in the hallway and was halfway down the stairs. “Harry!”

“Draco! I'm here!” Harry shouted after him.

The blond bed head turned around to reveal red-rimmed, wild eyes, staring up at Harry. Draco really looked a bit deranged at that moment.

Before the former huntsman could say anything else, Draco had bolted up the stairs and bodily thrown himself at Harry.

“Don't you ever, ever do that to me again! Hear me? Never again!” Draco spat into Harry's neck, hugging his middle so tightly that it hurt. Quieter he continued: “When I woke up alone just now I thought... I thought you were taken again, that I only dreamt you were back.” He tucked his chin onto Harry's shoulder, looking up at him. “Don't disappear on me like that. Don't leave my side.”

“Not even to go to the loo?” Putting his arms around Draco, Harry smiled gently and dropped a kiss onto the blond hair.

“No,” said Draco firmly and turned his head, so his cheek lay on Harry's collarbone as if to listen to his heartbeat. His agitated breath slowed down; he squeezed tighter.

Harry felt guilty although he'd really only been gone for twenty minutes tops. Seeing Draco scared like that was unnerving, but also very heart-warming, in a twisted way: When Harry had been a child, there had been times when he'd been gone for hours and no one had asked after him at all. It was nice to have someone who cared. Of course, his friends cared for him, too, but somehow this felt different, safer, warmer.

“Sorry, love. I didn't mean to frighten you. I'll be good from now on,” he whispered.

Draco's head shot up, cheeks flushed. “What did you just call me?”

Harry blinked and tinted. Oops, that had been unintentional. “I mean, you have a fun nickname for me, so?” he tried to bluff it out. “But if you don't like–”

“Nevermind. It's fine.” Draco coughed, extracting himself from the embrace. He looked as if he was highly embarrassed at being caught being so emotional. Harry found it terribly endearing. “So, what have you been doing in there?” Draco jabbed his chin towards the open library.

“Reading,” Harry shrugged. “I was curious and I did find some interesting stuff about The Hunt.” His expression grew soft. “You really put so bloody much work into finding me, I'm amazed.”

“Well, yes, of course. If I start something, I do it right.” Bashfulness and pride fought a battle on Draco's face.

“Yeah...” Harry said slowly, an idea having struck. “Should we put this theory to the test?”

He didn't wait for an answer and cupped Draco's face with his hands.

The kiss was just as inflaming as the earlier ones, but gentler, soothing somehow. And when Harry pressed one hand on the small of Draco's back to pull him closer, it was as if he said 'I'm here, I won't leave you'. Draco responded in kind, winding his arms around Harry's neck, anchoring him in the moment. They kissed slowly; they had all the time in the world. Harry lost himself in the intimacy of being held this way. Being wanted had been nice, but being cherished was oh, so much better.

Drawing apart for air, they stayed entangled.

“Your eyes are really green,” Draco mumbled, dazed.

“Yeah? And I have ugly glasses and no fashion sense?”

“What?” Draco frowned, pulling away a bit.

“Here, I want to show you something,” Harry chuckled and tugged Draco into the library by his hand. “This.” He held out the notebook, open on the first page with the various unflattering attributes of Harry.

Draco blushed hard and reached for the incriminating evidence. “Show that to me! Impossible – these notes had disappeared! Hunt magic would erase everything I wrote about you.” He thumbed through the pages, his face incredulous.

Harry was standing behind Draco, one hand at the other boy's hip and watched over his shoulder. “Oh? Seems like the notes came back with the memories as well. Anyhow, I think these insights are highly amusing,” Harry remarked and Draco snorted. “But I wouldn't have needed those to find out about your thoughts on my spectacles, did I now?” Pointing at Draco's reading glasses on top of Harry's head, the latter grinned widely. “Like my style, Malfoy?”

Draco cringed a bit. “Whatever, Potter.”

Harry watched intently at the way Draco said his surname: Potter, with a P-sound, puckering his lips. Mhm, where had they left off in the hallway?

“You're having that look again,” Draco stated evenly. He didn't sound too uninterested though.

Harry licked his lips.

Yet there was something he wanted to ask first, before he lost himself in the pleasure of kissing Draco (which indeed, could just become his new favourite thing).

“Can I?” Reaching around Draco, he turned a few pages before stopping at a side note reading 'most powerful connection: wand?'. Something about the wording had tucked at Harry's memories. “Hermione said a bit about this earlier, but... care to elaborate?”

Weirdly, Draco stiffened for a moment and when he spoke, he looked down at the notebook. “Yeah, about that... Ahem, so we thought that, you know, because you were temporarily the owner of my wand and we therefore somehow 'shared' a wand, that that made up the 'most powerful connection'. The lore says only the most powerful connection can make it so that people remember kidnapped witnesses. And since wandlore is complex, especially regarding ownership and allegiance, it made sense.”

Something unsaid hung in the air around him.

“But?” Harry prodded.

“But,” Draco hesitated, shifting uncomfortably in Harry's half-embrace, “I visited Ollivanders, just before I lost my last memory of you. I didn't have time to write it down yet.”

Harry furrowed his brow. “Write what down exactly?”

Draco let out a long breath and then leant back against Harry's shoulder. “Mr. Ollivander said that my wand only listens to me, that it has no connection left to you. It completely changed its loyalty back to me.”

“Okay...” Harry drawled. “But if that's the case and this theory's wrong then how did you remember me?”

Draco stayed silent, his fingertips playing with the handkerchief on Harry's wrist.

Suddenly, BraveHeart/Colin's laughing face popped up before Harry's inner eye and he heard the tiny boy state with a voice of confidence: “Love is the most powerful connection.” Right, that was it. That was what they had talked about all those months ago. That was why the phrasing had felt familiar.

Love. Harry felt his face redden up until under his hair roots. Bloody hell.

Draco cleared his throat: “So, he said that... he thinks that... I mean... it's just a theory...”

Love. Of course it was love. The most powerful magic, the most powerful connection – and certainly nothing the two of them were ready to talk about yet. Hell, Harry hadn't even digested his own feelings completely, how could he talk about this with Draco? And Draco's feelings... he shook his head – not tonight. “Right, you know what? Let's continue this conversation another time, yeah? I think I'll try the bed again. Care to join me?”

Draco's drawn-up shoulders dropped in relief. He turned around, mischief glinting in his eyes. “Sure, how else would you find the way? You couldn't possibly master such a difficult task alone.”

Harry grinned at his boyfriend's (boyfriend's!) waggishness, then the smile slowly slipped off his face.

Master.

His gaze dropped back to the notes. Master....

A bark of laughter broke from his lips and shook him.

“Why are you guffawing like a maniac?” Draco asked bewildered.

Harry, doubling over, held his stomach, gasping out words in between new waves of giggles: “Because, haha, I figured something out just now that Hermione missed – and you apparently.”

Wiping tears from his face, Harry straightened up. “Draco, I know how to find the baby. I know how to find The Hunt.”

Draco stared at him. “You do?”

“Yes, but I think it would be best if I went tonight to retrieve her.” Harry nodded at his own words. “I better go now.”

“Go,” Draco repeated, “now.” His voice was deadly calm. Then he exploded: “Are you out of your bloody mind? Do you really think I'd let you go back to The Hunt after everything? Are you insane?”

“It will be quick.” Harry dismissed the yelling with a wave of his hand. “They can't hold me this time. I know it. I'll be back in half an hour – with baby Dreamer. That's what we dubbed her.” The coincidence with Dreamer was still weird to him, but then maybe not: After all, Draco had heard about her while hunting Harry... He shook the thought and made for the door.

“Harry.” Draco's hand closed tightly around Harry's upper arm. “Didn't you just promise to be good from now on?” Harry simply looked at him and Draco sighed, suffering. “Then I'll come with you. I won't let you go alone again.”

“No.” Harry's voice was firm. “You can't, it's too dangerous.”

“Exactly!” snapped Draco heatedly. “If you know where The Hunt is, let's send the Aurors to get the baby back. It's their job. Why do you have to go?”

“Because,” Harry maintained gently, “it's not dangerous for me; but for everyone else it might be. Let me go, Draco.”

“Not alone,” Draco insisted. “You'll get in trouble. You always do. Because you never listen. Didn't I tell you not to look at The Hunt? But no~, you had to be curious. I'm coming, that's my last word.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Always, never. Those words are hardly helpful in a discussion, don't you know that? But alright, maybe it'll be good to have you with me.” His eyes darkened. “To remind me where I want to return to.”

Draco swallowed. “Right. Better put some clothes on then – we can't go in our pyjamas after all.”

“Mhm, I'd rather you took something off then put more on, but I guess that'll have to wait until after.” Harry grinned and strolled back to the bedroom, leaving a flustered Draco standing in the library.

Pulling two Weasley jumpers from the wardrobe (an older green one of Harry's and a brand-new light grey one of Draco's), Harry mumbled under his breath: “Wear this, brought me good luck in The Hunt.”

Focusing on Harry, Draco put on the offered clothing without protest. “So, where are we going?”

“Hogwarts. The Forbidden Forest.”

Draco looked up. “What? Absolutely not!”

Harry blinked. “Er...?”

Gathering speed, Draco's voice rose: “You're never going back to Hogwarts. Ever. You vanish there and get nearly killed or actually killed. I forbid it! You're not going.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“You know,” Harry pointed out while tenderly brushing a stray strand of blond hair behind Draco's ear, “you can't actually order me around. I'm not a child.”

“Well, you behave like one.” Draco's eyes were pleading. “Does it have to be the Forest?”

“It'll be fine. 'And if I fall, you're there to catch me,' remember?”

Draco sighed defeatedly. Throwing his own words from their first patch back at him had done the trick. “Do I get to know why we have to go there? I never found any connection between The Hunt and the Forbidden Forest.”

“Ever heard of the Resurrection Stone?”

Caught off guard, Draco blinked. “Er, yes?”

Harry nodded. “Do you know what it does?”

Slowly, as realisation dawned on Draco, he explained: “It's a stone that can bring back dead people. Or so is the legend. I surmise you want to try this theory?” He frowned. “But Hermione said that those ghosts summoned by the stone are really just part of the summoner's memory. I don't see how that's helpful.”

“It'll work. Just trust me on this one.”

“Okay,” Draco said thoughtfully, “let's say this goes as planned – no one knows where to look for this supposed mythical stone. What makes you think it's in the Forbidden Forest?”

Eyeing Draco from the side, Harry hesitated for a moment. This was a lot to drop on someone. But Draco was strong. He could take the truth. “Because I left it there, the night I died.” Draco inhaled sharply and Harry felt his heart go out to him. “Tell you while we walk? But you put this on, okay?” Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak around Draco's shoulders and stepped back to look at him. Of course, there was nothing to look at as Draco had vanished from sight.

Harry held out his hand. “Shall we? It's a bit into the woods and I daresay we have time for the whole story until we get there.”

Draco's head popped up in mid-air. “Okay. But I don't see why this,” a detached hand gestured at nothing, “is necessary. If you insist though, fine. Just – are you not coming in here?”

“No need. I'll explain that too in a minute.”

“Alright,” grumbled a bodiless voice in front of Harry and he felt fingers wrapped in cold fabric close around his hand. “But you better tell me everything. And Harry? Stay close to me.”

“I will.”

***

The Forest again. Of course.

Anxiety made it hard for Harry to breathe. It was not the same to go into the Forest as to plant saplings at the edge of the Forest. This would be his first time really entering since... He shuddered and was ever so grateful that Draco had insisted on accompanying him. Harry could have done it alone. It would have been wiser to do it alone, not to put Draco in danger who knew so much and yet so little. But it was too late now, they were already walking. Walking through the pitch-black Forest.

Draco was stumbling yet again, holding tighter to Harry's side and showing extraordinary amounts of bravery for a Slytherin, because only Harry could see the faint glow leading their way. For Draco it was like walking blind and it said a lot about his trust in Harry that he followed him into a dangerous place, at night, sightless and without the whole puzzle at his disposal yet. Harry wanted to kiss him badly.

“What happened then?” Draco's whisper floated like a shout through the trees.

Harry hurried to continue with the story of the Deathly Hallows and the Horcruxes, how he had come into the possession of the former and destroyed the latter.

“So, you're saying that this cloak I'm currently wearing is a Deathly Hallow and makes one invisible even to Death himself?”

“Yes, that's right.” Harry corrected their course, pulling Draco with him. “I know, I was sceptical at first, too. But really, you already saw this one is different from all other cloaks: It remained. Even after The Hunt had taken me, the Invisibility Cloak stayed in the wardrobe although all my other stuff had vanished with me. Why is that, I ask you? Easy. Because the cloak has Death's magic in it.”

“Makes sense,” Draco's answer sounded strained. “But if that part is true does that mean the rest is, too? If the stone, the cloak and the wand are real and you had them all then does that mean...?”

“That I'm master of Death? I suppose we'll know in a minute.”

Harry had stopped between two broad trees. There, almost hidden under debris, was the source of the faint glow they'd been following.

When Harry had dropped the Resurrection Stone, back during The Battle of Hogwarts, he had thought that he would never find it again. And maybe he wouldn't have, but now that his brain had made the connection, the stone and The Hunt were linked and, as Harry had hoped, there was still some tiny bit of Hunt left in him. If one'd come so close to being a permanent part of The Hunt, something stayed behind, somehow... He had felt (and ignored) it ever since unmounting Lightning at the cliffs. Earlier, when they had entered the Forest, Harry had reached inside himself, found the piece of Hunt magic and followed it to this place. Just like back at Windsor Great Park when he had had to retrace his steps back to The Hunt encampment.

“We're here. Just, please don't speak. I'm not in any danger, I think, but you could be, so stay hidden.”

“Alright.” Draco squeezed his arm, nervousness shimmering through. “But don't be too daft and do anything rash like you normally would? Please just play it safe for once, okay?”

Despite worrying about what was to come, Harry had to smile. Really, only Draco could make a rebuke sound so caring. Geez, he'd really fallen hard for this insulter.

“Yeah, okay.”

Harry bent down and picked up the glowing item. He closed his eyes and turned the stone over in his hand, three times. Then, deliberately, he dropped the stone back onto the ground. He would not need it again.

An icy breeze rattling the leafless branches was the first sign that it had worked, followed by low rolling thunder in the distance.

Draco pressed closer into Harry's side when they heard hoofbeats approaching, but he didn't say a word.

Sleipnir, Berchthold's gigantic eight-legged pale white horse burst through the trees.

The equally gigantic leader of The Wild Hunt on horseback looked as he always had: Wearing a green hunting attire, he was enveloped in an ever-moving storm cloud that lay on his shoulders like a cloak and he had an iron chain wound around his hips. He was still sprouting rather impressive antlers. Most prominent feature however was the red and black half-mask that covered the right side of his face, contrasting sharply with his fair skin. Oh and his horseman's boots which were aflame, like it was nothing special...

Harry felt the hairs on his arms standing upright. He'd rarely ever been so close to Berchthold.

Over this short distance, the rider's raw existence was like a heavy blanket. Berchthold was still oppressing like ringing silence. He was thunder and lightning and yet he was the eye of the storm, most deadly, most powerful. He was doom laced with an unsettling amount of peace and apparently, he'd come alone.

Except, there was a night raven perching on his shoulder. A black bird with white feathers dotting its wing tips. It could have been any old bird, but Harry knew the moment he saw it that this was yet another form of Holle's. For her sheer presence was emitted in such a humongous way that he was once again reminded just how powerful and ancient she really must be. Yet there was also her softness that, even in this dark place, made him feel something akin to hope. She was like winter and spring – bird or no bird. Her beady eyes seemed almost glowing when she looked down at him.

Berchthold's silence settled over their little spot, louder than the thunder before. Then the leader of The Wild Hunt unmounted, his burning feet extinguishing when he touched the ground. With big steps he came to stand before Harry and Draco, towering over both of them. He was frightening.

Harry took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Hello. Berchthold. Holle.” He nodded at them in turn.

“She's Huginn-Muninn today; thought and memory.” Berchthold's voice boomed through the Forest and made both Harry and Draco flinch back.

“Right.” Despite the circumstances, Harry felt himself smirk. He should have guessed.

There were more pressing things to discuss though than Holle's fetish for weird names.

It was time for a straight talking. All cards on the table.

“You are glowing to me with Somewhen Glow,” Harry disclosed. “I've met you before, previous to joining The Hunt.”

“...twice,” affirmed the pale rider.

Harry nodded. It made sense. “Once as a baby when I nearly died and the other time when I really died.” It was a statement, not a question.

“They all meet me, when they die,” said Death.

Draco's fingers drilled holes into Harry's upper arm and Harry suddenly wondered if Draco could even see anything at all. Must be horrifying to have this kind of conversation in absolute darkness. Soothingly, Harry put a hand over Draco's invisible one and cast a nonverbal Lumos.

Harry knew, rationally, he should be scared, too, but somehow a deep-seated confidence let him be calm in the face of Death himself. “I think, inside, I suspected it. Ever since we were in Sweden and that woman died... The way you were with her...”

“Her time had come. She went on.”

Harry frowned. “On... That's what Dumbledore said to me when I talked to him in the in-between; when I was technically dead.” Draco twitched. “But... I didn't talk to Dumbledore, did I? That was you.”

Death cocked his head, looking thoughtful. “No, it was him. And it was me. And it was all inside your head.”

Blinking rapidly, Harry tried to grasp that concept but gave up eventually, chalking it up to Hunt logic. One thing finally added up though. “That's why you were here, on the night of The Battle of Hogwarts and that's how you brought the others – my friends – to The Hunt.”

“Indeed, Master Harry,” Death agreed.

Of course. “And that's why Holle and the moss folk called me 'Master' and she gave me a bloody crown!” Harry laughed with surprise and squinted up at the night raven. “You knew who I was and that I was master of Death, didn't you?”

The bird croaked.

“Course you knew, after all, you two,” Harry's eyes went from one to the other, as he put together the puzzle pieces in his mind, “are two sides of the same coin – death and life.”

It all made sense now. Goddess of birth, blessing of the crops. Their sameness while feeling like utter opposites. Black and white, tall and small, male and female, flames and snow. They were one and the same and yet different entities.

“That's why you're both the leader of The Hunt,” Harry developed the thought further.

“Yes and no. Huginn-Muninn's time spearheading The Hunt is long, mine is short. I rule during Yuletide, she reigns the rest of the year. It's always been that way – it represents the life and death ratio of a lifetime. Only, people made me into the overall leader, because they like to tell stories that are dark and frightening,” Death grinned dreadfully. “They want to believe what they want to believe.”

Harry shuddered involuntarily and leant into Draco's touch. “Like the Tale of the Three Brothers?” Holle flapped her wings. “Just how much of it is true?”

Death stayed silent for a moment as if considering, then he replied: “Some.”

Amused, the corner of Harry's mouth twisted upwards. “There's that secret motto of The Hunt again: Never give a clear answer if you can be all mysterious.” He shrugged. “Fine, be that way. Just tell me if I'm right on this one: Yes or no – Holle made the Deathly Hallows.”

That surprised his interlocutor. “Yes. But how did you know? You really are more than meets the eye.”

Harry chuckled at the unexpected compliment. “Thanks, but that wasn't me. People tend to think I get impossible things done but the truth is, I always have help and in this case a very smart man,” Harry was so immensely proud of Draco, “gathered all the information for me. All I had left to do was put the notes and my experiences with The Hunt together.”

Waving a giant hand at Harry, Death instructed: “Elaborate.”

“These are the three Deathly Hallows: the Resurrection Stone, the Cloak of Invisibility and the Elder Wand. Holle is guardian of the treasures of the interior of the earth – that's why there's a stone. She also overlooks weaving and can change the weather – that's why there's a cloak that seems as if woven from clouds. I guess it's part of yours? Looks a bit like it. But mostly, the dead giveaway (excuse the pun) was the elder plant that she supposedly gave to mankind. I mean, elder, Elder Wand, come on.”

Death slowly clapped his hands, deafening like cracks of thunder. “Very good, Master Harry. Yet you missed one thing. Nosy people that call themselves knowledgeable often claim that the Elder Wand's core is a Thestral tail hair. That's only partly true; it's a tail hair from Sleipnir.”

“Oh.” Harry's eyes went to Sleipnir. During their conversation, the horse had been idly shuffling dead leaves with the nose. Maybe that was the true nature of all things related to The Hunt, they were always somehow more than what they appeared to be at first glance. “That explains the power of the wand then. After all, it has part of Holle's magic and part of yours.”

Harry bit his lip. This was his chance to get out all the questions he never asked before. “But, since we're at it: I've been wondering about how the cloak came into the possession of my family. Are we really related to the original three brothers from the story? Do you know?”

“Hm,” hummed Death non-committally. “Quite clever asking the same question twice, just in a different way. If I wanted to tell you about the tale, I would have.” His eyes burnt into Harry's and the boy felt himself lean backwards. Better leave this one then. “What I can tell you though is this: The cloak has been an heirloom in your father's side's family for a long time. So long indeed that he had forgotten about it and I... let's say I made him aware that it was in his possession.”

“You did? How?” Harry's eyes went round and he could feel that Draco was also listening intently. It was as if excited tension radiated from his invisible body.

Death shrugged, upsetting Holle on his shoulder. It looked absurdly normal. His words however were everything but: “I appeared to him in a dream when he was but a boy. I told him rather, er, intently to look for the cloak and find it.”

The gears in Harry's brain started turning. Something clicked into place. “You didn't happen to be in your stag form when you visited him, did you?”

“How in the sky could you possibly know that?” Death's voice was sharp like a lightning strike and Harry had to smile faintly. The coincidences of the world were innumerable.

“My father's Patronus was a stag and... so is mine, after his. And his after you, I think. All in all,” here, he grinned and winked, “you are quite memorable.” That earnt him a nudge into his side from Draco. Jealous, huh?

It was entertaining to see Death in all his glory looking taken aback and floundering about. “Ah, er, right, such a chain of events. How curious.”

“I'm curious: Why did you tell my father about the cloak in the first place?”

Death shifted. “To be quite truthful that was a fluke on my part. My visions are sometimes a bit vague or blurry and don’t come with a timestamp. The one I'd really wanted to make aware was you. That was a case of mistaken identity since I thought he was you. Considering that you two do very much look alike, that was an honest mistake.” Holle took this moment to peck him at the shoulder; it looked like a scolding.

Surprised, Harry scrunched up his nose. “Okay, but why did you want to let me know then? Also: visions?” He nearly jumped when something cool pressed to his ear: “He sees the future,” Draco whispered almost inaudibly.

Trying to digest all of this, Harry struggled to sort his thoughts. Everything seemed so impossible, so incredible and yet... “You... you saw all of this coming?” Death nodded once. Harry swallowed. His voice shook slightly. “And... you didn't do anything?”

Death's expression was cold. “I come from battle and conflict. The world of the living doesn't concern me.”

“But why get involved at all then? Why the cloak, why me? Can't you bloody give the whole story for once!” Harry hadn't meant to yell, but he was sick of it. Always just bread crumbs, never the complete loaf. He was angry to find, once again he'd been manipulated by greater forces. Now he wanted answers and he would get them, goddammit.

“You said it yourself: I saw all of it coming. My visions showed me the rise of an ambitious madman who had set it as his goal to cheat me. I also saw that the only one who could stop him was a black-haired little boy, so I set out to help him. Unfortunately, I got it wrong the first time, but the cloak came into your possession nevertheless. The second time, I wanted to make sure, so when I came to collect your mother that fateful night,” Harry's heart constricted, “I helped her a bit, holding my hand over you protectively to amplify her sacrifice. I suppose that's the reason your curse scar is lightning-shaped.” Death grinned apologetically. “Among other things, I am known as Odin, god of thunder and lightning. In other words, the shape of your scar is my mark. It showed from the beginning that you were chosen to be master of me eventually.”

Letting out a long breath, Harry stood, shaken. “Huh. You really thought of it all.”

“...maybe not all.” Death's voice turned glum. “I did not think about the fact that putting that much weight on young shoulders might break a child's back. I don’t normally care about the plight of the living, but… Towards you as my chosen master, I'm sorry.”

Harry's hands curled fists. Yes, it had been unfair and uncalled for and he really wished to scream that out into the world. Though in the long run, everything had turned out alright. If he had learnt anything during his time riding with The Hunt, it was that getting upset over every little thing in the past wasn't helpful.

An apology was good. It would have to be enough. “Thank you. I think I needed to hear that.”

Death exchanged a look with Holle on his shoulder. “You're taking that well. Seems like you were able to heal. That is good. You've matured a lot.”

Harry's heart skipped a beat. What was that just now? He furrowed his brows. “Heal? I'm not sure what you mean.”

“I think you do.”

Silence stretched between them. Harry defiantly looked into the darkness of the trees.

“Maybe it's time to face it, so you can let it go,” Death suggested, not unkind.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Death sighed, his breath like a storm gale. “After The Battle of Hogwarts, in the weeks before you joined us, you were closer to me than while you were with The Hunt. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

Almost against his will, Harry's eyes snapped to Death's. He understood, even if he didn't want to. At the same time, he felt Draco shift next to him, putting an arm around his back as if to hold onto him, just in case.

Harry leant back into the touch. “Back then... I was inwardly lost. It wasn't that I felt not like living anymore, not quite. But secretly I wished myself away, I think. This guilt, that I let my friends die,” tears slowly ran down his cheeks now, “it was like a knife in my heart, every day. I thought I failed them.”

“You didn't though. They fought and died for their conviction, for the hope of better days – and better days they won for all of you. Which is why I allowed them to ride with us, it's their reward to live out their best death at The Hunt. Your friends are alright and you know that now. For that purpose we came to collect you, to help you heal and save you from yourself. Also, to give you back part of your ruined childhood, I guess. It's what I owed you, as my master.” His face grew solemn. “But it was also to honour you, after all you made the biggest possible offering to Life herself: You gave yourself as human sacrifice and that deserves our highest respect and our camaraderie forevermore.” He slightly bowed towards Harry, who felt the weirdest mix of feelings swirling inside.

Drying his tears with the back of his hand, Harry snivelled. “That's great, thanks, but what if I hadn't healed? I mean, I nearly died anyway.” Draco sharply inhaled and Harry quickly cleared his throat to mask the sound. “My Hunt bracelet was almost red. Oh, by the way, now that I got my memories back I guess that the initial red knot was there because I've already been dead once, rather than for having a death wish?” Death nodded. “Right. But before I left The Hunt, there had only been one white knot left to go and if I understood that correctly, then all red would have meant I would have died. So...?”

“Well~,” Death drawled, shifting from foot to foot, “we hoped you would find your will to live again before it was too late. Huginn-Muninn here, the old softie, even granted you her crown with Somewhen Things and allowed the moss folk to give you hints about your life – to present you with something worth living for. Worked, too, I'd say: When you came to us you were somewhat broken, but slowly you got better. We saw it every day. Also,” he wiggled his eyebrows, “we had high hopes for our secret weapon: Draco, don't you want to take off that cloak already?”

Harry flinched violently and blanched. “Wha-what did you just say?”

Death crossed his arms over his chest and looked a bit like a petulant little child while doing so. “You boys think you're so smart and, admittedly, comparatively you are. But do you honestly expect that we'd believe even for a second, Draco would let you come here alone? After everything? I mean, we can't see him, since you cleverly put the Invisibility Cloak on him, but I bet Sleipnir that he's standing right next to you. So, maybe it's time to drop the masquerade.”

Before Harry could react, Draco had shoved the cloak off his head, so that he was now standing partly visible in front of Life and Death. His brows were furrowed and his expression was sour. “If you knew I was here since the beginning, you should have said so. How do you even know my name?”

Death smiled thin-lipped at being spoken to in that way. “Harry mentioned you. Once or twice.”

Despite being slightly worried for Draco's life, Harry blushed. He had been gushing about Draco a lot during his time with The Hunt.

“Also, we met before.”

Ice-cold fear doused Harry. 'Met before' sounded really, really bad. He stared at Draco, who in turn looked confused. “How so?”

“During The Battle, you were within a hair's breadth of my dominion, don't you remember?”

Harry watched Draco's Adam's apple bop. “The Fiendfyre.”

“Precisely. Your time had come there, but Master Harry deemed you worthy of saving. So we,” he inclined his head towards Holle, “let him save you. That time in the fire and now. All this was as much for your sake as it was for his.”

Right, protection from fire was one of Holle's attributes, but what exactly had Death meant by–

“What do you mean, 'you let Harry save me now'? I did the saving!”

“That really depends on the point of view.”

Draco opened his mouth in righteous indignation, but Harry elbowed him and shook his head. Better not let a razor-sharp Malfoy-tongue loose on Death himself. There could be severe consequences.

Death pointed at the spot where Draco's arm was still hidden by the cloak. “You, my boy, chose to follow an enemy of mine – a fiend who attempted to cheat me by never dying. If not for your connection to Master Harry, you would be in for a long road of redemption after dying, mark my words. With his advocacy though, I consider your sins as a mere misstep. You did wrong, but you are willing to make up for it. Therefore, finding The Hunt and Master Harry was our task for you, to prove yourself worthy in our eyes.” For the first time since Draco had revealed himself, Death looked warmly at the blond boy. “And you did so well.”

“You really did,” Harry confirmed and kissed Draco on the cheek.

Draco however stayed motionless, his face pale in the darkness. “I did wrong,” he whispered as if to himself. “I'm a wrongdoer, am I not?”

While Harry frowned and started to object, Death beamed: “Yes and such a bright one, picking that up right away. You really have a smart head on your shoulders.”

Looking between the three of them, Harry had the distinct feeling that he was missing something. “What's going on?”

“'He hunts down wrongdoers until they can no longer run',” Draco droned, his voice void of emotion.

It took Harry a whole three seconds to understand that Draco was citing his Hunt notes. Yes, of course, Harry had read that part, too. But what did it mean exactly? He looked questioningly at Death.

“Let's put it this way, I 'hunted' Draco in his thoughts, since he was a wrongdoer – until he could no longer run and righted his wrongs somehow. Or in other terms: He was constantly thinking about you (at The Hunt) and because of that he evolved, walked new paths and did good along the way. Like patching broken buildings he inadvertently helped destroy, or finding missing people, whose misery his past actions unintentional facilitated. And plenty more. He was just as much in need of solid ground as you were, Master Harry. And just as you felt bad in the beginning when you came to The Hunt and started feeling better after, his emotions changed, too: from guilty outsider to accepted part of the group. Taking you was punishment and reward – for both of you.” He winked. “Oh and yes. We know all that about you, Draco, because we kept an eye on you. Let's just say Howard has not all of his seven cat lives left and is an old acquaintance who owed me a favour.”

Mouth agape, Harry stared and then stared some more. Eventually, he turned to Draco who looked just as dumbfounded. That was a lot to take in.

“Who was missing?” Harry heard himself ask, even though his thoughts were still in disarray.

“Friend of Thomas'. I managed to find her. Am good at that,” Draco replied, words wobbling slightly. He, too, was still in a bit of shock. Understandably.

“So, you,” Harry faltered, wet his lips and tried again. “So, you planned all of this? Us?”

Death's laugh rolled like thunder overhead. “Not at all. That came rather unexpected. What we did do though was to make sure Draco had the best chances to succeed. For one, we never truly tried to take him for the audacity of looking at The Hunt unabashed. We could have. It was in our right. But we knew you,” he nodded at Harry, “wouldn't approve of it and also we wanted him to eventually free you. So, essentially, Draco was always safe from us.”

While this tremendously relieved Harry, Draco looked disappointed: “But then... I mean, if you helped along, then the strongest connection...?”

Ouch. Right, so what Draco with his quick wits had instantly picked up on was the fact that if Death and Life had their fingers in the pie, Draco's ability to remember Harry was maybe merely because Holle had decided to not blind Draco with her breath. Plain and simple. It could also mean that there was no strongest (love) connection at all. Not that it mattered, Harry was sure about his feelings, deeper magical meaning or not. But what if Draco weren't...?

“Oh no, we had nothing to do with that. We were just as surprised as you that you could remember him. Though, to be clear, it wouldn't have worked if you didn't love him,” Death said bluntly, making Draco sputter and Harry's heart flutter, “or vice versa.” This time, it was Harry's turn to blush.

This was definitely not the way he had imagined the L-word conversation to go. Harry chanced a glance at Draco's scarlet face. He caught Harry's eye and reddened even deeper, but he didn't avert his gaze and right there, in the middle of the Forbidden Forest, in utter darkness, in the company of Life and Death and via words spoken by another, they knew, with absolute clearness, that their feelings were mutual, and real.

Harry didn't care for the on-lookers. It was their moment, Draco and his.

Unexpectedly, it was Draco who made the first move, pulling Harry closer by his jumper. He kissed him tentatively, almost in a shy way; the brush of his lips an unspoken question. Well, Harry had a lot of answers. He wound his arms around Draco's invisible back and kissed him the way he deserved – breathless, scorching, igniting fireworks.

“Ahem.” Right, yeah, they had been in the middle of a conversation. Was that important though, when he could be kissing Draco instead?

A bit unfocused and refusing to let go of Draco's waist, Harry managed to pull away and turn towards the pesky source of interruption. “Hm?”

Death seemed amused. “You called me, remember?”

“Ah, yes, about that–”

“Speaking of remembering:,” Draco cut in, cheeks flushed, hands still tightly fisting Harry's jumper, “What if I hadn't remembered about him?”

Good question.

“Then we would have gone with Plan A and hoped Master Harry would find his own way out of The Hunt – or realise his place was with it. Whichever seemed more fitting. But truly, we like the happy ending better. Good thing our meddling helped.” Death grinned and Holle flapped her wings in approval.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Thanks a bunch. Really, great way of helping, you guys: kidnapping and psychological torture!”

Harry snorted as Death gave Draco a disbelieving stare on account of the latter's brashness. “You are very cheeky.”

“I think I can be, after all you put us through.”

“Now, look here, I just explained–” Death spluttered.

“Yes, thank you for the well-meant 'help'.” Draco waved the interjection away with the trained movement of an arrogant aristocrat. Harry knew this wasn't wise, but he also knew it was a hoot. He squeezed Draco tighter, who spoke once again: “Now I have a question for the bird lady: What's your actual name?”

“Croak!” croaked Holle and tilted her small, black head to the side.

“I mean,” Draco ploughed on, “you have so many personae – which one is you real name?”

'Rolf', Harry thought and grinned. If he was truthful though, this question interested him as well.

Death harrumphed. “Her name is...” he glanced at the bird, “forbidden. No one can say it. Not even me. On account of this, because it causes her great sadness, she created the escape route for witnesses: So that the right name can set one free. Right in this case being debatable – either the birth name or a name with the right feeling.” Here, he shot Draco a meaningful look, which made the blond boy blush. “Anyway, she who is without name, gave great power to other people's names. Sometimes, facing final judgement, the right name at the right time can save a life – or end it. But that's another story and shall be told another time.”

Draco looked a bit disappointed, but Harry nodded. He was used to this secretiveness and these half-truths. “I suppose that makes sense. Jumping in, I also have a question: What about the fairy tale Mother Holle? I mean, that's not really about her is it?”

The pause was long enough to make Harry wonder. “...people tell stories, Master Harry. They tell them about you, too.”

Okay, another non-answer. Awesome.

“All right, but why did you, Holle, let magic doers steal a piece of your pond? I know that legend is true, I saw the archway at the Ministry,” Harry ventured.

The raven cocked her head and remained silent. Fine, keep some secrets, why not.

Maybe one last try, while they were in Q&A-mode. “Here's another thing I've been wondering about: What exactly is your curse, Ber– Death?”

Draco frowned. “What curse? I've never heard about that.”

“And you never would have; only members of The Hunt are even aware. Thusly it will stay forever. My curse is for me alone to know as I have to bear it alone as well. But let's just say that those scorch marks on my boots are not by chance, if you get my drift. I can't really say any more, but both our,” he pointed at Holle and himself in turn, “'restrictions' were put upon us for... misdemeanour... towards the powers that be.”

Harry had half a mind to enquire about the 'powers that be' but eventually decided against it. Sometimes it was best not to ask questions you weren't prepared to hear the answer to. Draco seemed to think alike, as he opened and closed his mouth several times, without words coming out.

Death's remark about the scorch marks had reminded Harry of something Ember/Crabbe had said about Berchthold way back: “He's devoured by flames.” What kind of flames were those, Harry wondered, flames of eternal servitude or even... flames of hell?

In any case, as mighty as they both were, Life and Death were both bound somehow and for the first time, Harry realised that that was plain to see for everyone who cared to look: In human form, both wore the same type of chains, wrapped around their middles, symbolising their limbo.

“You know,” Holle cawed and fluttered from Death's shoulder, landing as her usual white-clad human self (Draco gaped), “I was going to stay out of it, since our youngster here called for you and not me, but since we're at the topic of curses and such,” she put her hands on her hips and gave Harry a stern look, “temporarily, I was rather hoping you'd break his.” She jabbed a thumb at Death standing behind her like a mountain.

“Hello, Holle – or should I call you Huginn-Muninn, or Life?” Harry enquired with a smirk.

“Whichever,” she replied curtly, busy with dusting off her Tracht dress.

Typical. Harry rolled his eyes at Draco. “Well, since you're gracing us with your speaking presence, mind explaining that bit with the curse breaking? Or is that considered 'babysitting'?”

The old woman gave Harry a sharp look. “Feeling brave 'cause your lover holds your hand, eh?”

'Maybe a little,' Harry agreed silently, while Draco was nervously fidgeting at his side.

“Now, about Berchthold's curse, I made the Deathly Hallows to break it. Quite simple, really, all you have to do is–”

“DON'T!” Death's voice boomed through the Forest and shook the wintry trees. “Not another word, woman! Did we not agree that Master Harry should have a good life for all his efforts? Don't put ideas into his head, you know he has a people saving thing.”

Just as Harry opened his mouth to either protest the last bit or ask after the first bit, Draco's hand closed vice-like around Harry's wrist.

“Hypothetically,” Draco said, his voice had a tone Harry had never heard before and which gave him goosebumps, “if Harry had... died... riding with The Hunt – what would have happened to him who is master of Death?”

Life gave Draco an appraising look. “You were right, Berchty, this one is a smart cookie.”

“Not another word!” Death growled, but the cow-horned crone ignored him and continued: “The answer is this: He would have taken Berchthold's place.”

There was no movement between the four silent people standing vis-à-vis. Harry thought that his swallowing was as loud as a gunshot. Taking Death's place... becoming Death.

“I made the Hallows hoping that someday a worthy person would come into their possession, making them the master of Death and, when they once would die – not by another's hand but of their own volition – they should shoulder the burden and become the leader of The Hunt. Until the next master would come along.” Her hair floated in the breeze as she turned to look at the masked man behind her. “I just wanted to end your curse. You've served long enough.”

“So have you,” Death said gently. “Thank you.”

“That means,” Draco concluded slowly, “that Harry can't die unless he himself chooses it? Then however he has to replace you?”

“Yes and no,” disclosed Death. “Yes, Master Harry will only die when he decides so – which was the main reason to make him part of The Hunt as he was... considering.”

“I wasn't!” Harry yelped immediately, yet he wondered just how true or false this assessment really was. Maybe he would never know for sure. The only thing he did know was however that if those thoughts had been there, they no longer were now.

“And no,” Death continued as if there had been no interruption, “when he eventually dies, as master of me, he will still have the choice to refuse or accept.”

Draco's death grip relaxed. “Concluding you say that Harry is essentially immortal and can go to the next plane without problems, once he's turned 950+. Did I get that right?”

“Yes, you brat,” snarled Life and crossed her thin arms over her chest. “Quite right. Your other half is gleefully safe while mine is condemned for all eternity.”

Harry blushed at the implication. 'Other half' sounded so... married? He glanced at Draco, who glanced back. Yet, developing this thought further, did that mean Berchthold and Holle...? The image was too weird, Harry pushed it far away.

Life rolled her eyes. “Not what you think, you heathens. Gosh. We,” her finger whipped back and forth between Death and her, “are literally two halves of one.”

Draco frowned. “Which means if he were freed from his curse, so were you?”

“In theory, yes,” Death agreed, “but it also works the other way round: Should The Hunt ever catch The Beginning, which is sort of an incarnation of Life, she would be freed and I with her. Theoretically.”

“What is The B–” Draco started, but Harry cut in: “I'll tell you later.” That would be another long explanation and if he was honest, Harry was starting to get a headache from all these new/old realisations and revelations. Their nice warm bed at Grimmauld Place sounded suddenly very alluring, even if it was a tiny bit too soft. It was time to wrap this up.

“Alright, look here, let's make this easy. We all agree I'm master of Death, yeah?” Astounded nods. The others were taken by surprise over Harry's sudden change of pace. “Right, so, as master of Death, I declare the following – ready?” He looked Death straight in the eye. “You don't need a master. You, Death, are no longer required to be the leader of The Wild Hunt. I set you free. ”

Death blinked and Life's mouth fell open.

Draco looked at Harry as if he were the eighth Wonder of the World. “Can you do that?”

Harry shrugged. “Why not? If I'm the master, I can set my servant free. Like your father did with Dobby. Really not that difficult, I think. And didn't The Tale of the Three Brothers end with them as equals, the third brother and Death?”

Death nodded slowly, clearly overwhelmed.

“Great! Let's shake on it?” Harry grinned and intoned in a mock-Death voice “After all, you said it yourself: We are comrades forevermore.”

“Forevermore,” Death affirmed gravely and shook Harry's hand with his unnaturally hot one.

Harry stepped back and winked at Draco. This would be good. “Cool and since I'm at upsetting the way of the world: I hereby resign as master of Death, effective immediately.”

Life and Death gasped in unison.

Draco squawked: “Are you crazy?! Do you know what you're doing? You're throwing away immortality! You're going to die!”

Harry took the flapping, upset hands of his boyfriend into his own. “Yeah, like you, like everyone. I want a normal life, Draco. I want to grow old with you and die. Simple. Can you understand that?”

Draco's distress was palpable. “But you'll be in danger! You could die any time!”

“Yes, love,” Harry lifted their hands up and kissed Draco's knuckles, “just like everyone else. But I suspect,” here he flashed a brilliant smile in Death's direction, “that it'll be a long time before it's either of our turns, am I right, mate?”

“No comment,” grumbled Death, but he didn't hide his non-worry about this issue.

Life shook her head. “Bite me if I've ever seen such a dunderhead! You're really something else, boyo.” She reached out with her cold hands and mussed up Harry's hair and then, for good measure, Draco's.

Harry beamed. “So~ What are you going to do now that you are free? Holidays in the Caribbean?”

Life and Death exchanged glances, then the pale rider announced: “We will return to The Hunt.”

“What?” Harry's face fell and Draco looked just as aghast. “Why?”

Life smiled and she looked younger than ever. “Because if we don't, who would care for the riders and the moss folk? And who would hunt The Beginning, for a restart of all life on earth? If we didn't go back, it would break the circle of life.”

“Let the powers that be find someone else to do it,” Harry insisted stubbornly. He saw Draco nod.

“I'm sure they will,” Death surmised, “but all in due time. Until then, we will continue the task. Voluntarily.” He winked. “It's something I've learnt from you, mate.”

“Well,” Draco chimed in, “if there's something you excel at, it's surely making a sacrifice for the greater good. I'm glad people finally appreciate that.”

This haughty Malfoy-vibe kind of speech made Harry break into laughter and soon the others fell in.

“Leaves one last thing to do,” Harry wheezed, “the thing we actually came for, really. We would like to have Dreamer back.”

“The sleeping baby,” Life explained catching sight of Death's drawn-up eyebrows.

“Ah, yes.”

“Just tell us where to find The Hunt at the moment and we'll go there and get her.”

A several seconds lasting silent conversation went on between Life and Death.

Harry frowned. “What's the problem?”

Finally, Death nodded once and Life turned to Harry: “No problem. But it would be a bit inconvenient if we had to travel to you every time you want to visit your friends at The Hunt. That's why...”

She plugged out one of the white feathers that dotted her wing tips like snowflakes and gave it to Harry. The moment it touched his hand the plume sizzled and turned into a snow-white piece of rectangular cardboard. It was blank.

“I call it the Key of Crossroads, a fourth Hallow.”

Harry's eyes went round like saucers and he stared first at the paper in his hand then at Life and then at Draco whose expression showed just as much surprise.

Life chuckled. “You should see your faces!”

“Well, excuse us if we're flabbergasted,” Draco snapped, offended. “We've never heard of a fourth Hallow.”

Life hummed in agreement. “Because there wasn't one until just now. Okay, so listen up, I'll only explain once how it works. Like so: You have to stand in the middle of a crossroads and then the Key will show you the current location of The Wild Hunt.”

“Why crossroads?” Draco queried, taking the cardboard from Harry and turning it over in his hands.

“Oh, our little raven is also the goddess of crossroads,” Death smirked. “That's why we, Master Harry” (“Not your master anymore!”) “met at King's Cross I guess. Partly due to your imagination and partly due to hers.” His grin widened. “In reverse that means she's weak in the middle of the road, which is why Draco would have been safe from The Hunt when we met him in front of the barn, even if he hadn't been part of our 'project'.”

“King's Cross,” Harry repeated pensively. “Is that why this Hallow looks like a blank train ticket?”

“Yes!” Life clapped her hands in glee. “Very good, Seeker – I mean Harry!”

Harry laughed at Draco's confused face. “It's fine. Call me Seeker, if you like.”

“Better not,” Death interrupted sternly. “M– Harry, you must understand that with revoking all your titles and demands, you also gave up your privileges. With the Key you can always find The Hunt, but once you're there, Hunt magic will start its work and slowly make you forget about yourself again. That's why it's important that you don't have people call you Seeker too often while you visit and don't stay too long. Understood?”

Harry sobered quickly and nodded, while Draco looked as if he had half a mind to rip the Key apart. Harry shot him a warning glare and Draco, glaring back, thrust the Hallow at him with a disapproving hmpf.

“We better find a crossroads then,” Harry wrapped up the conversation. “See you at The Hunt?”

“Yes,” called Life, turning back into a night raven.

Death mounted Sleipnir and turned in the saddle to look down at Harry and Draco: “One last thing. Remember the story about this one,” he jabbed his finger at the bird, “stealing children and how they come back different?” Draco shook his head, but Harry knew what Death meant. “Now that she 'stole' you, Harry, you came back as a...”

“...darling of fortune,” Harry whispered, in awe.

Death nodded solemnly and then smiled, before he spurred his horse and rode off into the night sky.

There was a moment of silence, during which the two remaining boys looked after the rider.

Then Harry turned to Draco. “You know, I had a lot of weird things happen in my life, but Death himself making a love confession on my behalf really takes the cake.” His features softened when he saw Draco blush. “I think I need to say this properly now.”

“Geez, Potter, don't you think it's a bit too late into this five-hour relationship to go all serious on me?”

Harry didn't let himself be distracted. “I love you.”

Draco made a funny squeaking noise. “What's with the–? Why do you always–?” He stopped and sighed, then his face turned sober. “I love you, too, you big sap. Now, can we go and get this done so we can crawl back into bed and I can show you exactly how much?” He started back the way they had come, but halted once he realised, Harry wasn't following. “What is it?”

“You do?”

“I do what?”

Harry shuffled his feet, not meeting Draco's eyes. “Love me? I mean, sure, you sort of have to say it back for it not to be awkward and yeah, there's the whole bit with the most powerful connection, but then again I thought that, you know, you probably weren't ready to hear it, even though I know how I feel, for months now, but I wasn't going to put it on you, truly and–” Harry knew that he babbled, he just didn't know how to stop.

“Harry.” Draco had come back to stand before him and cupped his face. He kissed Harry slowly, taking his time to show him exactly how much. When he finally drew back, Harry felt light-headed and very, very happy.

“Hm, I didn't quite get that. Could you explain it to me again?”

“Pillock.” Draco rolled his eyes. But he explained it nevertheless, very thoroughly.

***

“Okay, so, how does this work now?” Leaning over Harry's shoulder, Draco peeked down at the Key.

Harry shivered. It was six in the morning, still long before sunrise and after all the turbulent events of the night (and the whole past year, really), he was getting cold and tired.

It had taken them some time to march back through the Forbidden Forest and to the gates of Hogwarts, so they could Apparate back to Grimmauld Place. There, Draco had presented Harry with an all-time-ready Portkey to baby Dreamer's father's farmhouse. Apparently, the former Slytherin had visited the grieving widower quite a lot to give him hope by telling him his progress. (Draco also had a vast collection of other Portkeys to various international locations, Harry marvelled.)

They had travelled to Sweden, woken up a crumpled-looking farmer (“Good morning, Mr. Withane, this is my paramour Harry. Harry, Mr. Withane. We've found The Hunt. Let's go.”) and dragged him and his ever-sleeping baby out to the farm road crossroads they were all currently standing on.

“Not sure how this works, but I guess, I'll just have to think about wanting to find The Hunt?” Harry pondered.

The moment he said the words, black-inked letters in squiggly font appeared on the 'ticket' to The Hunt: Hörsel Mountains.^[1]

“Alright, looks like we have a destination,” Draco announced, gesturing for father and child to come closer.

“Are you sure about this?” Harry hissed, a side glance at the Muggles. “That the Swedish Ministry of Magic is lenient regarding violations of the Statute of Secrecy?”

Draco nodded. “As long as they're justified; which this case surely is. I wrote about it to the Swedish Ministry's Department for International Cooperation. They said it's fine, as long as the knowledge about magic stays within this family and Mr. Withane swore up and down he would never tell anyone how I got his daughter back, if only I got her back at all.”

“Good then,” Harry relented. “Mind you, I'm not worried about me; I just don't want to get you into trouble.”

Draco huffed exasperatedly, but couldn't hide a smile. “Yes, yes, that's sweet. But I'd rather you would think about yourself first. You never worry about yourself.” He scrunched up his nose. “Guess that's my job now.”

Harry grinned. “If you want it.”

“Oh, shut up and let's go already. Mr. Withane? Hold on to Harry's other shoulder, will you? Yes, like that. Okay, we're ready.”

They Disapparated...

...and landed knee-deep in powder snow, in the middle of the riders, on a flat mountain top overlooking a wide landscape down below.

At once they were enveloped in the familiar hubbub of The Hunt. Everywhere were people and animals gathered in groups around cheerful little camp fires, laughter and songs filling the air.

Harry felt a pinch of nostalgia. Even though he'd been part of them mere hours ago, now he was Harry again, not Seeker and he didn't belong here anymore. He looked at Draco who stared wide-eyed at the chaos. Harry belonged with him now. Yes, this was the way it should be.

“Oh! My! Goddess! Seeker!”

“Seeker!”

Suddenly, Harry found himself buried in arms and bodies, faces pressing into his cheeks and hair, all accompanied by the ever-present Hunt scent of horses.

They were all talking at once: “We thought you had an accident!” – “Someone said they saw you falling off of Lightning.” – “We were so worried!” – “What happened?”

Peeling the gang members off, Harry smiled at the warm welcome: “Calm down, will you? I'm fine. Better than fine, actually. I'll tell you everything if you let me breathe. But, just, don't call me Seeker anymore, okay? I'm Harry again. Call me that. Oh and this is–”

“Draco!” Half exclaimed ecstatically and hugged a floundering Draco.

“Yeah,” Harry sneered. “How did you know?”

“Well, Harry,” Wolfe smirked and took over from Half by kissing Draco on both cheeks, “we saw him once, remember? Also, Perchta stopped by earlier and told us you were on your way back and would bring a Draco. What else? Mhm, I don't know – maybe the fact that you spent the whole summer talking about nothing else but him? Ring a bell?”

“None at all,” Harry teased and winked at Draco who looked a bit tousled while answering Harry's gaze with a silent plea for help just as BraveHeart linked his arm through Draco's, beaming up at him.

“You glow,” contributed Ember, eyeing Draco cautiously.

The addressee, a second ago very busy with distracting himself from a question-cascading BraveHeart, went rigid.

It was as if a breeze of silence hit the loud Hunt and even the ignoramuses sensed that something was going on.

“He means Somewhen Glow; it's around things or people riders have met before their death,” Harry elucidated quietly.

Draco swallowed. “Right.”

Seemingly confused about the effect of his simple observation, Ember turned to Harry: “If you're with him then that means you left The Hunt?”

“I did,” Harry confirmed. “He called me, at the cliffs earlier, and I remembered my life. Sorry I couldn't say goodbye then, it went all very fast.”

“That is like uber-amazing!” squeaked BraveHeart. “Draco, Harry was right, you are so cool!”

Tearing his gaze from his dead former friend, Draco managed to give the tiny boy at his arm an amused look. “Was he now? I wonder what else he said about me?”

“Oh! Oh! I know! How about the fact that you–”

“How about the fact that you would without a fail come to save him?” Half cut in, taking pity on a Harry who quickly turned into a tomato. “And you did.”

“Yes, well done!” Wolfe chimed in, poking Draco's other arm.

“Well~, it was a mutual team effort, really,” Draco retorted smugly and Harry had to discreetly feel whether his face had maybe caught fire. Not that he was shy about sharing their relationship with their friends, but seeing Draco so open about it, when earlier Harry had had to fight him tooth and nail... Harry had to admit that this was something unbelievably sexy about Draco: Once he'd come to terms with a situation, he was swimmingly at ease. His confidence had always got under Harry's skin – one way or another.

“You remember us alive then?” Ember interrupted Harry's musings.

“Oh, yes. But don't worry, we'll honour your wishes and won't call your real names.” Harry and Draco had talked about it on the way. “That way, you can stay with The Hunt and live happily. More so than if you'd know your identity but couldn't go back to your lives. Since you're dead and all.” That sounded sad somehow. Better add something uplifting. “Oh, but we have the means to visit whenever we want to now, so we'll see each other plenty, I'd wager.”

Ember nodded. “And in life, we were good friends?”

Harry hesitated.

“The best,” said Draco firmly. The two former Slytherins shared a long look and Harry snuck a hand to Draco's back. Seeing Crabbe like this must be so very hard.

“Draco?” an unfamiliar voice was heard. Harry, confused for a second, turned his head to find Mr. Withane with Dreamer's living body in his arms, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. In the turmoil of their welcomes, the quiet farmer had been ignored by the gang.

“Of course,” Draco acquiesced at once, assuming his business face. “Right then. Listen up, Fallen Four,” Harry arched an eyebrow at that name, but found it quite fitting, “we came here not only to give Harry the chance to properly say goodbye for now, but mostly for...” Draco looked at Harry.

“Dreamer,” added Harry quickly.

“Dreamer,” finished Draco.

“What about her?” growled Ember, crossing his arms defiantly.

Harry smiled ruefully. This would not be easy for the big boy. “This is her father, Em. We came to bring her home. So that she can wake up again and grow and have a life, you know?”

Ember's eyes darkened and he pursed his lips. Then he turned and walked away without a word.

“He's quite attached to your daughter, Mr. Dreamer's Dad,” explained Half with a worried expression. “He's been looking out for her ever since she came to us.”

“I'll talk to him,” Wolfe offered, but before she had got out of sight, she turned around again and came back, followed by Ember who was carrying Dreamer in his large arms. Dog Scoffer accompanied the trio, seemingly excited at the sight of Mr. Withane as he yelped loudly when he saw the farmer and tried to jump up at him.

Stepping back into their circle, Ember frowned at the incredulous faces. “What? Did you think I'd hide her or something? She gets to live, that's a good thing. Why would I not want that for her, something good?”

“Indeed,” Harry agreed and BraveHeart piped up: “Ember, you're the man!”

“Let's do this then,” Draco instructed, “Ember? Come over here. You too, Mr. Withane. Hold the bodies close together.”

They did as they were told. One moment, Dreamer in Ember's arms lay cheek to cheek with her living body in her fathers embrace, the next moment, the spirit baby rolled over, put her tiny hand to the real baby's shoulder and – just kept rolling, until the whole Dreamer had vanished inside the other one.

Ember's arms were empty. Blinking rapidly, he folded them over his chest and took a step back with a bleak expression.

“Now you call her name!” Draco directed.

Mr. Withane swallowed, his eyes fixed to the ruddy-cheeked infant in his arms. “Wake up, Anne.”

The little girl gurgled, stretched and blinked her eyes open. A silvery laugh rang from her lips when she reached with her tiny hands for her father who promptly burst into tears.

Harry suddenly felt rather teary-eyed himself, but a quick scan of the group told him that he wasn't the only one.

“Thank you, thank you, Draco, thank you! I can't thank you enough!” Anne's father blubbered and gripped Draco's arm tightly. “And thank you all for taking care of her! Oh my little girl, I didn't think I'd see the day...” the rest was unintelligible sobbing.

“Un-bloody-believable! Draco! You save them all!” BraveHeart announced and shook Draco enthusiastically.

“I, er,” Draco, between being squeezed and shaken was grabbing for words. It was sweet to see him unpretentious for once, earning praise for a work well done that he'd actually done. Of course, as a Patcher, Draco was working hard, but he usually didn't get much recognition for his patches, so this was nice.

“He really does, B.” Harry beamed with pride. “Inadvertently, he even helped defeat these bad people you told me about, those that scared you? You were right, they did exist. Not anymore though, so you no longer have to hide. Give me your mask.”

Taken by surprise, BraveHeart hesitated, then pulled the mask off and handed it to Harry. For a moment, he looked small and uncertain, but then he smiled as if a burden had been lifted off his shoulders. “Thank you.”

Harry nodded, satisfied.

“Well, Mr. Saviour,” he turned to Draco who shot him a dark look, “one more to go, are you ready?”

Mr. Withane turned to Harry in confusion. “One more?”

“That's right,” Wolfe confirmed, petting the dog of the gang. “So, call this one, too!”

“I don't...” Puzzled, the farmer's eyes jumped from one to the other.

Draco reacted similarly, furrowing his brows: “The dog?”

“Yes, the dog,” Harry reassured. “May I introduce to you: Scoffer, Dreamer's – Anne's – uncle. He was turned into this shape for insulting The Hunt. But I think he has learnt his lesson, hasn't he?”

Scoffer woofed in agreement.

“Right then, may I?” Harry reached out his arms for Anne and with visible hesitation, Mr. Withane gave him the child. “Anne, sweetheart,” Harry cooed, the baby's wide eyes attentively on his face, “can you please call your uncle?”

Anne giggled. “Ba-ba!”

Scoffer whimpered and squirmed, rolling into a ball and then growing bigger and bigger, until he was no longer a dog, but a young man with flaxen hair, kneeling on the frozen ground.

Mr. Withane gasped. “Oh holy–! How could I have forgotten about you? You, come here, you layabout!” He hauled the dog-turned-man up and hugged him fiercely.

“Interesting.” Half leant onto Harry's shoulder, watching the brothers-in-law laugh and cry at the same time. “What just happened?”

“You don't necessarily need the birth name to free someone from The Hunt. You just need the right name, that is, the name that feels right. Anne here knew who Scoffer was in her heart and she called him by his right name: the name she thought was right for him. Only she alone could do it really. After all, everyone else had forgotten about Scoffer. She was the only one who remembered him in both worlds.”

“Genius,” Draco acknowledged in awe and Harry felt his heart swell at the unexpected compliment. “Though you could have told me that before.”

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled sheepishly. “I wasn't one hundred percent sure it would work.”

“Well, it did and now, if you please, can we leave this place and go back to our warm bed?”

“Whoop whoop,” whistled Half and wiggled his eyebrows, “our bed, is it? Already?”

“Oh, shut up, you!” Harry grinned and shrugged him off. “Yes, let's go home. But before that, I want to drop in on the others, real quick.”

“The others?” Draco's eyebrows shot up. “There are more?”

“Yeah, you'll see. Scoffer, can you take Anne?”

The released witness extracted himself from his sister's widower. “I don't ever want to hear that name again!” Despite the sharp tone, he came over to envelope Harry and Anne into a bear hug. “Thanks for saving me, you two.” He took the baby. “Glad you found your dragon, Harry.” Turning he bellowed: “Ember, come here, my friend!”

Grinning, Harry took Draco's hand and pulled him away, Wolfe and BraveHeart leading the way back to the fire of the gang.

“Dragon?” Draco whispered.

“Tell you later?”

“Alright,” the dragon relented.

“Look who's back, Snowdrop!” Half called when they approached the horse group with the sleeping snow owl. Leaning towards Harry he added: “She was just as worried about you as we were, I swear.”

“Course she was.” Harry gulped. Hedwig. She hadn't died in The Battle of Hogwarts. She hadn't died anywhere near The Hunt and yet, she was here. Death and Life must've done something about that, because they knew how much Harry would appreciate this gesture, to see his old friend again.

The owl unfolded her wings and slowly glided over to Harry. He extended his arm and she perched on his wrist.

“Hello, Snowdrop.”

“These are 'the others'?” murmured Draco at his side. Harry ignored him.

Snowdrop cocked her head, eyeing first Draco then Harry. She hooted. It sounded like a question.

“Yeah, I'm back in my life and this is Draco who I told you so much about. We're together now. All is well.” Harry felt his face split into a happy smile. It was true, all was well indeed.

The owl blinked at him once, slowly. Then she started shimmering.

“Oh!” breathed Wolfe.

No one else spoke as Snowdrop/Hedwig gently blurred. Her tiny body fizzled into golden dots of light, which floated upwards towards the sky, until Harry's arm was empty.

“But why?” BraveHeart stared after her, tears in his eyes.

“Her task was done,” divulged Scoffer, one arm around Mr. Withane. “She told me so herself when I was a dog.” He looked at Harry. “She only stayed to protect you and now that she saw that you are taken care of and content, she felt relieved and moved on.”

“She said that?” Harry choked on his tears and was very glad, he could lean on Draco for support.

Scoffer nodded.

“What amazing friends you have, Harry,” Draco noted quietly. “You really are a darling of fortune.”

“Only if you're fortune,” Harry tried to joke, but his emotions were raw and his laugh half-hearted.

“Oh, take him to bed before he dissolves into tears, will you?” Half playfully nudged Draco. “See you again?”

“I'm not sure,” Draco replied honestly, but took the offered hand and shook it.

They said their goodbyes, sharing tears and laughter, promising to meet again, if possible.

When Harry, by then an emotional wreck, came to Ember, he wiped his eyes: “You, take care of Lightning for me, will you?”

Ember grinned. “Just as well as I looked after Dreamer.” He nodded at the horse. “I'll call him Invincible though.”

Harry rolled his eyes fondly. “You do that.”

“Look at that: Gold Harry and Pitch Crabbe,” Draco whispered the words so quietly into Harry's ear that no one else could hear. Harry snorted and shoved at him.

Draco fidgeted for a moment. “Goodbye.” He gave Ember an awkward hug which the other reciprocated.

Then it was finally time to go.

“Bye, you guys! I'll come visit soon!” Harry yelled and waved.

With the horses in the background, Half and Wolfe, arm in arm, and BraveHeart jumping up and down, and Ember with a solemn expression – they all echoed the send-off words and waved back.

Harry sent a final farewell towards Death and Life who had been standing at the fringe of the encampment the whole time, watching them. They returned the gesture in kind.

Then with a plop and one last look, Harry, Draco and the farmer family left The Hunt.

***

It was still cold. But with the wind having died down and a dozen Warming Charms in place, they sat rather comfortably on top of the White Cliffs. Harry was leaning against a broad boulder and Draco rested between his legs, his back to Harry's front.

They watched the eastern sky which was quickly turning brighter.

Coming back here, where their adventurous night had started eight hours ago, had been an unanimous decision. They both needed a moment to settle and sort through their thoughts.

“Was it very difficult to see Crabbe at The Hunt?”

“Hmhm,” Draco shifted a bit, “incredibly. If only I could have told him. That I'm sorry. That he was a good friend. That I wished things would have gone differently.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, you know that,” Harry carded a hand through Draco's hair.

“That never stops you. You take all the blame for their deaths as well,” Draco mumbled and pressed into the touch.

Harry hummed. “I used to. But I think I can distinguish better now.”

Draco stayed silent for a moment. When he finally spoke, there was an edge to his voice: “Is it true what they said about you in the Forest? About how you felt before joining The Hunt?”

“I suppose. Even though I wasn't wholly aware, I think. I just felt... numb. For pain, for pleasure, for everything really. It was always there, this haze, in the back of my mind, no matter if I laughed or cried.” He titled his head, so he could look at Draco's profile and the other boy turned to eye him. “In retrospective, after the War, I've only ever really felt alive when I was with you, Draco. I didn't realise it, but I was holding on to those moments I could spend with you at Hogwarts, patching.”

Draco leant forward and closed the gap between their lips. “And you're sure you're better now?”

Harry smiled. “Yeah, I know my friends are alright now. That was the biggest burden. Also seeing my life from the outside, so to speak, with The Hunt as a buffer, I came to terms with a lot of things. I think I'm more chill?” He laughed quietly. “And I have you now, don't I?”

“I think you had me for a long time already,” Draco ventured thoughtfully, facing ahead. “You don't have the monopoly on obliviousness.” Picking up Harry's left hand, Draco entwined their fingers. “Do you remember that time at the lake, when we watched the sunrise together?” Harry hummed affirmatively. “That's when I first allowed myself – just for a second – to think that there could be more.”

“More?”

“More to my feelings for you.”

Harry squeezed Draco's fingers slightly. “Can you imagine? All of this – master of Death, The Hunt and all that – started with me grabbing your hand.”

He couldn't see it, but Harry just knew that Draco was frowning. “You mean at the lake?”

“No. Much earlier. You know, during the War, at the Manor, when I wrested your wand from you.”

Draco snorted. “You're an idiot.”

“I'm the master of Death,” Harry mocked.

Draco squirmed a bit to look at him. “You turned that down! So, you're even more of an idiot.”

Harry kissed him. “You're adorable.”

Spluttering, Draco firmly turned back to look at the Strait of Dover. “Well, you're a princess.”

“Come again?”

“At least according to Ronald. They always bodged up your name while you were gone, couldn't keep it and all. So you had the funniest nicknames. But 'Princess Potter' definitely has a nice ring to it. Maybe I'll keep that one for you?”

“Sure,” Harry shrugged. “But you do know I can come up with equally fun names for you, right Dame Draco?”

The dame harrumphed and dropped the topic. “By the way, I promised myself I'd get you a thank you gift. You know, for saving us all from a maniac.”

Harry considered this. “Oh? Then I'll take... you!”

So Harry kissed Draco. And then Draco kissed Harry.

In the distance, the sun breached the horizon.

A new dawn had come.

Chapter Text

“Treacle?”

“Library!” shouted Draco without looking up; he was busy and long since used to Harry calling him by the name of a pastry.

Leaning over the stack of witness reports on a missing person case that the Auror Office had asked assistance on, he chewed on the end of his quill. This one was a bit tricky as statements differed widely. Which was probably why Draco had been tasked with it in the first place: Somehow he had built a reputation of being good at this stuff, at locating people that were hard to find. That the sister of the husband of the woman Thomas had requested Draco to find, all those months back, was an Auror had most likely nothing to do with that... nor the fact that Draco indeed was really talented at retrieving information about lost people's whereabouts...

Not that he had nothing else to do with his time. When he wasn't playing detective, Draco was occupied with helping out with new potions recipes at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes or serving as the Manor Library's contact man to all the libraries he had visited during his hunt for The Hunt. Also, there was always something to do for S.P.E.W. or the newly founded H.E.D.W.I.G. programme. Oh and sometimes, he liked to have a private life as well.

“There you are.” Harry brought in the smell of rain and mud. He came over and leant in to kiss Draco's temple, dripping on the papers in the process.

“Watch it! These are official documents!” Draco shoved the slob aside with a huff.

Harry chuckled. “Funny how you're the Auror now.”

“Consultant,” Draco grumbled and corked up his ink bottle. With Harry home there was no quiet working.

“Sure.” Harry shrugged and turned to the fire to warm his hands. “My game went fine by the way. Our team won. I caught the Snitch.”

Draco took pity and cast a Warming Charm on the newcomer – being outside in a November storm like today's must have frozen his lover to the core. Still, Harry's sparkling eyes and ruddy cheeks said that the career change from Auror-in-training to Seeker had been the right choice.

Having returned from The Hunt, Harry had realised that he had picked up Auroring after school for two reasons: 1) He hadn't had any better ideas and 2) he had been feeling guilty and had tried to remedy that by attempting future saves where he hadn't been able to in the past.

Once he'd figured that out though he subsequently had told Draco that he had decided to live for himself now, after having nearly died so many times. Draco had wholeheartedly agreed and thus Harry Potter had quit the Aurors and had become a professional Quidditch player instead.

Of course the ever-sympathetic former Gryffindor still wanted to help people which was why he kept attending benefit events and the such, even though he hated them. Draco, socially adept as he'd been brought up, always had to brave the crowds for both of them.

Sometimes, very rarely, there were still looks, but mostly people had accepted their relationship. Harry was simply too well-liked and his popularity had rubbed off on Draco like a red Gryffindor jumper tainting crisp, white shirts in the wash (example totally fictional). Also, once word had got out that Draco had helped to save Harry from great danger, the public's opinion of the former rose dramatically. Not that Draco was complaining.

Now, he went to stand next to the winner of the latest Quidditch World Cup qualifying match and handed him his own cup of freshly brewed tea. “I know. I heard it on the wireless. Congrats.”

“I thought you were working.” Harry arched an eyebrow, amusement in his tone, and sipped the hot beverage, sighing contently.

All of the sudden, Draco found his toes immensely fascinating. Even after all these months together, a few well-placed words from Harry could fluster Draco to the point of blushing. Stupid thing to be so dreadfully besotted. “...I missed you,” he mumbled to the floor.

Placing the cup on the mantelpiece, Harry hummed. “Is that so.” His tone was gentle... too gentle. Draco glanced up just in time to see the attack coming, before Harry was all over him with his hot mouth and his nimble hands and his–

“Ugh, Potter! You're all wet and dirty! Gross! Did you take a mudbath?” Draco wiped at his lips. Earth was not his favourite taste.

Harry laughed carefree, then winked at the other man suggestively. “I thought you liked me wet and dirty.”

Colouring, yet keeping his countenance, Draco pointed at the door. “Take a shower and then we can continue this conversation.”

“Alright, alright. I'm going,” sniggered Harry, trying to steal a kiss in passing which earnt him a glare from Draco. “You could come with though?”

“Mhm,” Draco mock-pondered, “sludge all over me? Nah, I'll pass.”

“Suit yourself.”

When the filthy Quidditch player was almost out of the library, Draco called after him: “Have you eaten?”

“Yeah, with the team,” came the answer, already from the hallway.

Good then.

Draco heard the bathroom door shut. If he knew Harry at all, that would take a while. After The Hunt, taking long showers was one of his Scarhead's favourite pastimes.

Looking over at the desk, Draco decided that he didn't feel like working anymore tonight. He stretched his arms over his head. All this sitting (and Harry) would ruin his back someday.

Strolling over to the windowsill, he picked up Harry's scrapbook and perched next to a snuggling heap of Howard and Eagle. The book was a lot thicker now, since Harry and Draco kept adding new pictures ever since last Christmas.

He turned back the pages until he found what he'd been looking for: the first photograph of Harry in the book, taken right after his return from The Hunt. It showed Harry, Draco and the whole Weasley clan in front of The Burrow, knee-deep in New Year's snow.

Draco smiled, thumbing through the memories.

The first few weeks after Harry had come back had been wild. Still waking up confused sometimes, needing a moment to sort their memories, had been just a small part of it. People had been writing, Floo calling or (if they knew how) dropping by. There had been an endless coming and going. There had been a lot of hugs and tears for Harry and a lot of claps on the back for Draco.

One very memorable encounter among these had been the return of Kreacher early one January morning, coming back to Grimmauld Place to greet his master(s).

The house-elf had been latching onto Harry, gripping so tightly neither of them had been able to pry him off, and blubbering noisy apologies into Harry's trousers' fabric.

To no one's surprise, it was Hermione – she and Ron just over for tea – who had pointed out then that probably the reason Kreacher had never followed Draco's orders one hundred percent (e.g. not permanently staying in Hogwarts) was because Harry had always, even when away, been Kreacher's true master. All had nodded to that.

To everyone's surprise, it was Hermione who Kreacher had attached himself to next, sobbing some more. “Kreacher is very sorry! Kreacher doesn't know how he could have talked to Miss Hermione that way! Kreacher did not want to call Miss Hermione a, a, a, that! Kreacher was just, was just – very confused. With his master gone, yet there.”

“Weren't we all?” had Hermione said and had patted the house-elf's head. “I'm not angry. We're friends after all, aren't we? Friends fight sometimes.”

Howling, Kreacher had then thankfully buried his face in his hands and had enthusiastically nodded to show that he felt the same way.

Draco however had picked up something odd then: “Kreacher, what did you mean 'your master gone, yet there'?”

Blood-shot eyes had blinked at Draco. “Kreacher meant that it has been weird to have two sets of memories and not knowing which one was real. But all of Master Harry's things had vanished and Kreacher thought Kreacher'd gone mad from solitude and imagined it all. Kreacher wasn't sure whether Miss Hermione had really treated him nicely or if that had been just another thing Kreacher had made up. Then, as Master Draco moved into Master Harry's bedroom, 'Master Draco's reality must be the right one', Kreacher thought.” He'd shaken his big ears. “Kreacher didn't know, Kreacher just didn't know.”

The silence at that moment had been palpable. “So,” Draco had cleared his throat, grasping for self-control, “you've known – or guessed – the whole time that Harry actually existed, I mean exists? And you didn't think to mention that?”

The house-elf had blinked. “Master Draco didn't ask.”

The room had erupted in laughter and Harry had kissed a thunderstruck Draco on the neck. Bloody elf logic... and bloody elf magic counteracting Hunt magic.

That day, Draco had made a mental note to research some more about exceptions of human magic (for example Hunt magic) on magical beings and animals.

But he'd soon had other things on his mind and February had come with sleet and hot cocoa in front of the fireplace.

Greg had been released from St. Mungo's and the whole Slytherin gang had gone to congratulate him and celebrate his sobriety.

Returning home late that night, in bed, Harry had looked at Draco so long until the latter had sighed, rolled his eyes and enquired: “Yes?”

“Goyle... you know I don't like him much. But he reminds me of Ember – Crabbe – and I've been thinking: Goyle only started drinking because he couldn't deal with his friend's death.” Harry's eyes had narrowed. “And I wasn't all that well either. Neither were you, if I may say so, or anyone, really. Some just hid it better than others.”

Draco had had to agree.

“So I thought... maybe it would be nice to... have a place to... deal?”

Rolling to his side to face Harry better, Draco had been intrigued: “Go on.”

So, Harry had set forth his ideas and not two weeks later (with a lot of help and good connections) the H.E.D.W.I.G. programme had been called to life, a programme to Help Everyone Drowning Woefully In Grief.

So that had put another take-care-of thing on Draco's agenda, but he hadn't minded. The initiative was smart and necessary and now, ten months later, it showed how greatly it had been needed. A complete success. Draco was so proud of Harry for coming up with it.

Flipping pages in the scrapbook, Draco reached a number of breathtaking landscape shots.

Those they had taken during their spring walks in the countryside, when they'd picked up Draco's old hobby of hiking cross-country.

In some of these photographs, Teddy was seen – either in Draco's, Harry's or Aunt Andromeda's arms – giggling gleefully at some birds or flowers on the way.

In any case, Harry and Draco had taken to eating at Draco's aunt's house almost as often as at Ron and Hermione's or The Burrow.

Draco smiled. Here, in their memory book, was even a slightly blurry picture of the special occasion during which Draco's mother had come to tea at her sister's... and Draco had brought Harry as his date. To say it had been stiff and awkward would be an understatement, yet they had all very politely agreed to do it again sometime (far, far in the future) and ever since, Draco's parents' letters to him always included a very constraint greeting to Harry. That was far more than Draco had hoped for. He would take it.

April had been mixed-weathered and many images showed domestic cosiness: them cooking together, them reading to each other, them snuggling on the couch or petting their animals.

Between those calm, warm shots were a few loud, garish ones of George's birthday party. They seemed so happy, but to Draco, that day was a memory of silent dread.

He had agreed to Harry's birthday present for George, after long hours of arguments; but Draco'd been sitting at home, biting his nails while Harry had been gone, giving the gift – after the party. Worst part had been that Draco hadn't been able to, for example, pop over to Ron and Hermione's place and let himself be distracted by a moo-vee. Harry's (really their) birthday present for George had been (and was going to always stay) a secret after all.

Earlier in the year, Draco had sat Harry down and together they had talked about what to do with the Key of Crossroads; whether they would use the fourth Deathly Hallow to enable the Four Fallen of the Hunt gang to reunite with their living family members. With heavy hearts the couple had covenanted to not tell anyone alive. For the simple and sad reason that even one person calling one of the dead students by their names would be enough to 'free' them from The Hunt and make them normal ghosts, damned to be forever haunting instead of happily riding with the hunting procession. One mistake, one incautious act, would throw all involved into misery.

So they'd buried the truth between the two of them. So that the families of the dead would have the time to grief and let go; the way they needed it.

George however... somehow he was a different case.

Harry had convinced Draco to make an exception for the twin: The former huntsman had told Draco how the late Fred at The Hunt called himself 'Half' because of the feeling of not being completely whole.

So, they had agreed. George had to swear an Unbreakable Vow to Harry (with Draco as their Bonder) to never call either Fred's nor Lavender's, Colin's or Vincent's name while in their presence and then Harry had taken George to see Fred.

Draco had stayed at home, for he hadn't wanted to intrude in the twins' moment. It had been terrible hours, waiting and worrying.

Finally, right before dawn, Harry had returned from the gift trip with an unreadable expression.

“And?” Draco had enquired nervously instead of a greeting. He'd been formerly pacing the floor around the kitchen table with a cup of cold tea clutched in his hands.

“Starting today, I'm on a seafood diet.”

“What?” Draco had nearly spilt his tea. Had the Hunt magic done something to Harry's head?

The jokester's face had split into a grin. “Every time I'll see food, I'll eat it.”

“You, tosser! Don't scare me like that! It's not funny!”

Holding his sides, Harry had laughed about Draco's indignation and pulled him close to pepper his face with kisses. “Sorry, love. It's just such a good Weasley joke. You should have seen them quip! It was great, Draco.”

“Yeah?” A mostly appeased Draco had then run his hands through Harry's dark hair. “All went well?”

“All went well,” Harry had confirmed. “Really well. They bragged about their girlfriends and were like they'd always been. George behaved most of the time, too. Didn't cause too much turmoil at The Hunt.”

“Harry,” Draco's voice had gone sharp. “What did he do?”

“Nothing,” Harry had quickly reassured and added seeing Draco's furrowed brows. “He's just curious. But he didn't do anything, I swear. We're not in trouble.”

“If you're keeping things from me–”

“I'm not! It was the right choice, Draco, truly.”

Sighing long-sufferingly, Draco had accepted this. “You're planning on taking him again, isn't that right?”

“They need it. They weren't ready to be separated yet. Hey, we even gave George a Hunt name – OtherHalf.” Taking note of his boyfriend's concerns, Harry had lifted Draco's chin then and had looked him in the eyes. “I promise to be careful. As I don't ever want to be separated from you again. Okay?” To prove that, he'd kissed him seal-it-with-a-kiss-style.

What else could Draco have done than to say yes, but deep down he'd known that he would always be queasy about Harry going back to visit The Hunt.

Thankfully that didn't happen all too often, as real life had a lot of plans for professional athletes and free-lancing people-finders alike.

Turning the next page of the scrapbook, Draco had reached the festivities for the second anniversary of The Battle of Hogwarts which had been held on May second.

There had been a big official party in the Great Hall – and another unofficial one down at the Quidditch pitch in form of a Patchers match with Draco and Harry pitted against each other as Seekers of the opposing teams. It had been an epic game and even though Harry's team won by a smidge, he'd made it up to Draco during their own little, very exclusive after-party in their bedroom later.

Draco leered. No pictures of that in here.

Next up were photographs taken at Draco's birthday in early June – a full room stacked with people who'd never dreamt of partying together, mostly former Slytherins and Gryffindors. It had been a blast.

Equally good had been Hermione and Ronald's first wedding anniversary later that month during which they renewed their vows, so that Harry wouldn't have to feel like he'd missed too much while he'd been away.

At the following reception (which had included even the new-born Weasley of Bill and Fleur's), Draco had danced with Harry, the way he'd wished at the actual wedding, and Harry had dutifully stepped on Draco's toes in the process. It had been terribly romantic and Draco hadn't minded his hurting feet one bit.

Especially not, when, later, Girl Weasley had walked up to them, eyeing them both critically for a moment before she'd kissed Harry on the cheek (Gasp! How dare she!) and had said: “It was good we broke up when we did. The way you look at Draco... I've waited a long time for you to look at me like that. But you never did. Be happy, Harry. You deserve it. You too, Draco – you're not that bad.” Then she'd sauntered away, leaving the two young men speechless in her wake.

The rest of it had been a magical night, in more than one way.

July had brought new reasons to celebrate and Harry had got two birthday parties, so make up for the year he had been with The Hunt. (Although he'd assured everyone that it wasn't necessary because the Fallen Four had thrown him a party last time. Draco had just rolled his eyes at him then and had waved him out of the kitchen. As if Draco would let Harry cheat him out of his right to dot on the birthday boy twice. Huh!)

However, on the day itself, early in the morning, before any festivities had started, the couple had gone out. They had Apparated to Windsor Great Park and with a bit of searching they'd tracked down Anguis. The snake (who at first glance had seemed like he couldn't care less) had only stopped being arrogant when Harry indulgently had presented the brought along snacks. Their talk, with Harry as the translator, had been rather entertaining and Draco had found he liked the reptile quite a bit.

One part of the conversation had gone like this:
– Anguis: “Sss.”
– Harry, blushing: “Ahem. 'This is your Draco then'.”
– Draco, amused: “Your Draco?”
– Harry, stammering: “I might have, er, called you my Draco before?”

Good memories indeed. In the scrapbook was a sunlit shot of the three of them. Right next to birthday celebration pictures of both Harry's birthday parties.

And on the next page was... Draco grinned. Oh yeah, August had been fun. The first time Harry had officially joined a Slytherin get-together – just Harry surrounded by Draco's school friends.

They had not made it easy for the Chosen One, prodding him with questions and making him swear up and down to treat Draco well. It had been quite sweet, if Draco were honest (though he'd never say that out loud), to see his friends' protectiveness and his boyfriend's steadfastness.

Towards the end, Pansy had nudged Draco in the side and had leant closer, whispering: “Well, I suppose I can forgive you now – since you dropped me for Potter.” She had flashed him a wrinkled smile. “You look happy.”

Sitting in their library, Draco's answer from that day echoed in his head while his fingertips brushed over a picture of Harry and Theodore competing in a round of pumpkin juice pong: “I am happy.”

He really was. Although, of course, the scrapbook didn't show the downs of their relationship. It wasn't always sunshine and roses in Grimmauld Place. Because of who they were, Harry fought as often with Draco as Draco fought with Harry. Though after lots of yelling and sulking and occasionally a few tears, eventually they found back to common ground every time.

Sometimes they just needed a little reminder of why they were so good together. Like that Europe tour they'd done in September, right after the big gala for the first anniversary of the opening of Manor Library.

The two of them had taken time off their busy (work) schedules and Draco had shown Harry all the places he had visited while gathering information on The Hunt.

There were pictures of all the big and little things they'd seen on their travels. Draco revelled for a moment in the memories of sunscreen and sea water, crowds and postcards, vineyards and pizza places, Rome and Paris, Harry and Draco.

Coming back from their trip, they had made good on their promise to Myrtle and had had, during ever-falling October rain outside, a surprisingly fun tea party at Hogwarts.

The last pages of the scrapbook were still empty; the final picture showed Harry in his Quidditch uniform, an arm around Draco and in victory pose.

Draco shut the book and looked at the clock. Harry had been gone for a while now, but... maybe there was still time to do one last thing before he re-emerged.

***

Closing the door behind himself with a thud, Draco smiled contently. That had gone well.

“What were you doing in Sirius' old room?”

Draco started; he hadn't heard Harry approaching. Recovering quickly, Draco alluded: “Oh, I talked to you about your Christmas present. But what are you doing up here?”

“I was looking for you, Treacle” Harry replied with furrowed brows, eyeing the closed door suspiciously. “You talked to Portrait-Me?”

Earlier this year, Harry had one day come home with a bulky parcel, announcing that his portrait from Hogwarts would be 'moving in with them'. Draco hadn't been terribly keen on this prospect (some days one Harry was more than enough, thank you), but had relented when being faced with two sets of Potter puppy eyes.

They had then proceeded in hanging up the painting in Sirius' old bedroom on the fourth floor and Harry and Draco both went up occasionally to say hello.

“Yes, Scarhead, and it's none of your business yet and no, he won't tell you either, so you don't even have to try. He promised,” blazoned Draco and linked arms with Harry, marching them both down the stairs towards their bedroom.

“That's ridiculous,” grumbled Harry, but let himself be led away, “you're having secrets with me about me.”

He smelt nice. Draco leant closer and nuzzled Harry's neck when they reached the second floor. “Well, here's something that's no secret: I'm rather in love with you.”

Grinning, Harry picked up a squeaking, caught off-guard Draco and pushed the bedroom door open. “Mhm, are you now? Care to elaborate?”

“I suppose.” Draco using his poshest voice when putting his arms around his boyfriend's neck, made Harry laugh.

***

Mid-December found Harry and Draco sitting in Ronald and Hermione's apartment for a joint gift wrapping session. The mood was light and the wireless was radiating holiday spirits.

Hermione was sitting cross-legged on the carpet in front of the couch, rattling off all the people whose presents still needed packaging. Meanwhile Harry and his Weasel had a pretend sword fight with two rolls of wrapping paper, which had them dancing back and forth in the living room. An excited Pig circled the opponents with loud screeching. Draco meanwhile was busy playing with Crookshanks (who was lying in his lap), teasing the cat with a gift ribbon.

“Alright, alright, you win!” Harry conceded breathlessly and let himself drop heavily next to Draco on the couch.

“HaHA! Bow to the mighty warrior!” Ronald roared, one hand on his hip, the other with the roll outstretched to the ceiling.

“You mean the mighty Weasel?” Draco smirked and quickly ducked, for wrapping paper came flying his way, immediately followed by a redhead aiming to tickle.

“Guys! Maybe some work while you play?” Hermione rolled her eyes and curled a ribbon.

“Absolutely,” Ronald agreed, trying (and failing) for a sober face as he sat up straight. The other men giggled.

Hermione huffed. “Really, you three together are a plague.” Then she couldn't help but grin as well. She threw a piece of ribbon their way. “Get to work!”

“Okay,” Harry relented. “Do you have a Knut for me, Treacle?”

“Sure.” Amused, Draco fished a coin from his wallet. “What do you want with it?”

Harry, writing text onto a Christmas card, didn't even look up. “I'm going to send it to my aunt and uncle.” He took the Knut, clearly deep in thought. “And maybe a protein shake for Dudley?”

Draco stared uncomprehending, but Ron at his side dissolved into a new burst of giggles, making Draco frown. “I don't get it. What's so funny?” How he hated to be outside their little in-jokes sometimes.

“Oh, it's just: For Christmas they sent Harry a 50 pence piece as his only present once,” the Weasel elucidated and wiped tears of laughter from off his face. “Great comeback, mate!”

“They did what?” Draco's mood had suddenly turned dark.

Harry, sensing the approaching storm, put a hand on Draco's knee, smiling. “I told you they are shit.”

As much as Draco appreciated the gesture, he was too upset to be appeased just yet. “Yeah, but there is shit and then there is...” An idea struck, his voice smoothed to neutrality. “Well, never mind. How about I bring this to the post office? I learnt how to do that. Did you write the address?” He would show them what's what, those bloody blood relatives. Draco imagined an evil laugh in his head, harharhar.

Harry gave him a stern look. “Draco Malfoy, you sly snake! You will not break the Statute to hex my relatives! Don't you dare!” Dang, Harry knew him too well.

Worth a try though. “It would be just a little hex? Itsy-bitsy?” Draco made exaggerated puppy eyes at Harry, who had to laugh along with the others, and then leant over to kiss his boyfriend.

“No. But thanks for the sentiment. I wouldn't want you to be sent to Azkaban for me.”

“You know I would though. I'd do almost anything for you,” said Draco quietly. At that moment, there only existed the two of them in a vast universe.

“Yeah.” Harry reached out to touch Draco's cheek. “Feeling's mutual.”

“Hey, you two! Stop planning crimes in our living room!” Hermione cut in and with lots of banter the four of them went back to their Christmas preparations.

***

Christmas time at The Burrow was separated into two big events: family Christmas dinner on the 25th and friends Christmas lunch on the 26th. Last year, Draco had been invited to the latter. This year, as partner of Harry who was practically family, the two of them would attend the former.

On Boxing Day they would juggle a short (!) visit to Draco's parents in France for a Christmas brunch (Draco very much shuddered at the thought already), several charity events (for Manor Library, H.E.D.W.I.G., S.P.E.W. and the Ministry) during the day ('duty hopping' was what Harry had dubbed this), a late tea with Aunt Andromeda and Teddy, a dinner party with Harry's Quidditch team and a Patchers' party at Hogwarts in the evening before a Slytherin get-together at night.

On the next day they would... do nothing. What bliss.

Draco sighed inaudibly, as much as he was looking forward to most of these meetings, he rather wished that he could simply spend the holidays with Harry curled up in bed. Being social was so exhausting at times. And then there was this other thing... he shifted nervously in his seat.

“...he said. Can you believe the cheek of that guy?” The whole dinner party erupted in laughter at the story Charlie had just shared.

Draco had missed most of it. A circumstance that Harry had not missed at all. He leant over, whispering: “Is it too much? Should we go?”

The goldilocks among gingers gave him a tight-lipped smile. Don't lose your nerves now, Draco. “I can handle a few redheads. Mind you, I did this without you last year.”

“Okay.” Harry furrowed his brows. “Then why are you so fidgety? You're spacing out. It's not like you.”

“I'm not fidgety,” snapped Draco, fidgeting with his fork.

“Right. Also not testy,” remarked Harry snidely, before lowering his voice even more. “If it's because of the jumpers–”

“It's not!” Draco might not admit it point-blank, but he totally loved his new Weasley jumper. The embroidered lettering read 'Saviour's Saviour' and it went very well with his complexion. Harry's jumper on the other hand, sporting the words 'Dragon Tamer', was of a fiery colour, contrasting his green eyes.

Everyone had thought the jumpers hilarious and Mother Weasley had been manifold congratulated on her clever handiwork.

The gifts he had received were not the reason Draco was anxious. But it wasn't time to tell Harry yet.

“Hey Harry, what did the Ferret give you for Christmas?” Ronald yelled rosy-cheeked across the table.

Maybe it was time after all. Blasted Weasel.

“Nothing so far. He's being all mysterious.” Harry arched an eyebrow at Draco. “Hold on, is that why–”

“I'll give it to you later,” Draco hastily cut in, “at home, when we're alone.”

George whistled. “Oh~ That kind of present.” Another round of laughter. The conversation topic changed and Draco was grateful although he could still feel Harry's scrutinising gaze.

They made it through dessert and into the living room, played parlour games and exchanged gifts. Harry gave Draco a Muggle book named Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (“It's one of my favourites. I thought you'd like it.”). They sang Christmas carols, told stories, ate some more and when it was finally time to go home, long after midnight, Harry and Draco took lots of left-overs with them to Grimmauld Place.

“That was fun.” Harry stretched and yawned, putting down the food basket. “Oh, look. Post arrived while we were away.” He unwrapped the package that had been dropped onto the kitchen table. “It's from Hagrid, rock cakes. He and Olympe send their love.”

Nervously Draco wiped his hands on his cloak, his eyes darting around in the little room. “Professor Hagrid and Madame Maxine, eh? Isn't it about time they tied the knot?” He was stalling and he knew it.

Harry went to put the perishable food into the fridge. “What? Oh, hell no!”

Draco flinched violently. “... do you have something against marriage?”

Over his shoulder, Harry gave him an odd look. “No? Of course not. But think about it: If they got married Hagrid would move to France.” He turned back to store the last edibles away.

Okay. Draco exhaled slowly. This was it then. Sink or swim.

“Right. In that case...”

Draco went down on one knee.

“Do you want to marry me?”

“What... did you just... say?” Harry faced him with an incredulous expression and Draco could feel his own heartbeat in his throat. If this went south, he wouldn't know how to handle it.

He swallowed, holding the opened ring box higher. “You must think I'm insane. We're barely out of our teens and have been dating for less than a year. But I just, Harry, I know I want to wake up next to your mop head in the morning. I want to share the last strawberry. I want to fight about who takes out the trash. I want to watch the sunrise with you. I want to hold your hand. Every day, for the rest of my life. ...do you?”

There was a moment of absolute silence in the kitchen.

Then Harry's face lit up in the way sunlight hits white flower petals – ineffably beautiful, almost too bright to look at.

“Yeah. I mean: yes!”

Harry swept Draco up, peppering his face with kisses so enthusiastically that Draco had to hold the ring box high in the air for it to not be knocked out of his hand. Typical. He was trying to be thoroughly romantic and Harry just– cupped his face with both hands and kissed him. Kissed him like he'd never kissed him before, like Draco was the world. They should've tasted like Christmas dinner and Butterbeer, but to Draco their kiss had the taste of love and incredible joy.

Huh. How fitting for Christmas: Joy to the world.

Draco pulled back, a bit dazed: “You're sure? No backsies.”

Laughing happily, Harry pressed his lips to Draco's once more. “Yep, completely sure. If I'm honest, I was thinking of doing it myself, proposing. You just beat me to it.”

Draco's heart skipped and then he grinned widely. “Is that so? Well, I don't want to seem greedy. You can pay for the wedding.”

“How generous.” Harry held out his hand, palm up, in front of Draco's face. “Do I get that now or what?”

“Heathen,” Draco grumbled fondly and turned Harry's hand over so he could put the ring on his fiancé's finger.

Before he could do so however, Harry had snatched the piece of jewellery from him. “What's that? Is there an inscription?”

Draco blushed just a little. He felt too warm inside to regret what he'd done on a whim.

Turning the ring in the light, Harry read loudly: “Scarhead & Treacle.” He then looked at Draco with the fondest smile and let him slip the engagement band on. “I always did love treacle...”

“Mhm,” Draco hummed, pleased with himself, and inspected the perfect fit. “But you better take that off before we visit my parents tomorrow. That is, if we want a mostly scene-free brunch.”

“No way!” Harry grinned mischievously. “I want to watch your father faint when he sees the ring.”

“Idiot.”

“Your idiot?” Harry offered.

“Yes, mine alone.”

Draco pulled his idiot into a kiss that set off fireworks in the kitchen and although they had a long day ahead of them that would start fairly early, they didn't get much sleep that night.

***

Most people had reacted as expected to the big news (Draco's father had indeed fainted).

When they'd told him and Hermione, Ronald had slapped both hands to his cheeks, imitating Edvard Munch's The Scream, and had stated in his most scandalised tone: “You are twenty!”

“Yes, yes, rub it in, Weasel. I'm getting married almost as young as you after making fun of you. Go ahead, laugh all you want,” Draco had granted generously.

However: “Not laughing at all. You guys are a perfect match. Seriously, mates, I'm happy for you.” And then there had been lots of hugging.

Cards had come in, letters, and a parcel from the Withanes, containing pictures of Anne's first birthday party and a copy of her uncle's newest bestseller Dog Days (written under the pseudonym Scoffer).

They'd decided to take the photographs with them (mostly for Ember/Crabbe) when they would visit The Hunt gang the next time; which was on New Year's Eve, before the big party at the turn of the year.

“Do we have everything?” Draco asked anxiously for the seventh time and Harry gave him a patient look. So what if Draco were still very uneasy about the idea of Harry anywhere near The Hunt? Even though there had been no incidents the whole past year and today Draco would go with him.

“Yes, everything. The pictures, the food. All there.” Harry rummaged in the gift basket the couple had assembled, holding up items as he spoke, then he stopped short. “What's this though?”

He'd fished out an unobtrusive, brown book, eyeing it critically.

Draco shrugged. “Poems. For Vincent.”

Harry looked at the book, then back at Draco with an expression that said he was expecting the statement to be a joke. Draco held his gaze evenly until Harry relented.

“You bought poems for Ember – Crabbe?”

Such ignorance. “He likes them.”

Seeming a bit taken aback, Harry's eyes went back to the nondescript cover. “Oh.”

“Give that here. There,” Draco held a page open for Harry to read, “doesn't this just fit?”

Harry, brows furrowing, read out aloud:
“Ecce homo -
Yes, I know where I'm related,
Like the flame, unquenched, unsated,
I consume myself and glow:
All's turned to light I lay my hand on,
All to coal that I abandon,
Yes, I am a flame, I know!
- Friedrich Nietzsche.”

The firelight was painting Harry's features in a soft glow and Draco found himself unexpectedly mesmerised by hearing Harry's low voice reading poetry to him. Wow, that was quite the find. He'd have to remember that for later.

Later... or next year or in ten years. That didn't matter anymore. They would be together. Something warm and pleasant enveloped him as he watched tiny specks of gold dance in his lover's hair. This was home. After all the hardship they had had to endure, they had finally arrived.

“Harry.” The addressee looked up. “Thank you.”

Harry wrinkled his nose in confusion. “For what?”

Draco gently brushed a lock from the scarred forehead. “For giving me a chance. For us.”

“Draco, what are you talking about?” He waited a moment for an answer that didn't follow. “Where is that coming from?”

“Nowhere. I don't know. I... it was last year, right after midnight, when I found you and everyday since, whether we fight or embrace, everyday has been a gift. I feel very lucky.”

Harry wound an arm around Draco's waist and pulled him close. “I am the lucky one.” He leant in to connect their lips.

Draco hummed into the kiss. Always a competition between the two of them. But he didn't mind.

The clock struck the hour and they reluctantly pulled apart.

“Time to find us some crossroads,” Harry whispered.

“Yeah.”

***

It was almost dawn on New Year's when they returned home, exhausted but in high spirits (emotionally and liquor-wise).

Partying wildly with their dead friends at The Hunt had made way for partying wildly with their living friends and there had been a lot of eating, drinking, games, singing, dancing and laughing. A perfect start into a new, promising year.

Draco crawled yawning into bed and watched lazily as Harry tried out different spots on their bedroom wall to hang the Fallen Four's Christmas gift: a(n unmoving) portrait of The Hunt gang, painted by the little Creevey boy.

Harry'd been right about the raw talent of the late artist, Draco had to give him that. Too bad really that they would have to cast a Disillusionment Charm on the image so that no one but Draco and Harry could see it. After all, they could not give the gang's secret away like that; people would put two and two together eventually.

“Like so?” Harry asked over his shoulder, hovering the painting next to the world map.

“Great.” Draco had already rolled onto his side, not looking anymore. Anywhere would be fine. He was tired.

Feeling the bed dip, he relaxed in anticipation of being snuggled – instead there was utterly unwelcome tickling!

Draco squeaked and moved away. “Potter, hands off!”

“When did I turn back into Potter?” Harry's wide grin was evident even in his tone.

“Just. When. You're. Misbehaving,” Draco growled, emphasising every word and holding Harry's mischievous right hand securely. “Cut it out, I'm trying to sleep!”

“I'm misbehaving?” Harry asked innocently and poked Draco's side with his left hand.

“Yes, very. Haven't you learnt anything in school?” Draco gave up and turned around to face the source of his annoyance.

He was greeted by Harry's brilliant smile. “I guess I just wanted your attention for a little longer.” Harry's knuckles touched Draco's cheek as he ran a thumb over the latter's cheek bone. “Sometimes I'm getting a bit jealous having to share you with all our friends, you know.”

Draco's eyes slid shut and he nudged closer, entangling their bodies fully. “I believe that's my line, Mr. Super-Famous-Chosen-One-Saviour-Hero.” He chuckled quietly. “It's sweet you would say that though. So just for the record: I'm all yours. Now, let's sleep, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry acquiesced and burrowed his nose in Draco's hair. Then he pulled back a bit. “Why in school?”

“Hm? Oh, Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus: Never tickle a sleeping dragon,” Draco mumbled.

Harry laughed quietly, his low rumbles rippling through Draco's body. “Ah, welllll,” his fingers danced playfully on Draco's ticklish side, “that doesn't apply to betrothed dragons.”

“Wrong! Especially to those!” Draco felt warm blush creeping up his neck and he wiggled to get into the perfect position, sleeping in the arms of his Chosen One – the one he'd chosen and who'd chosen him. “Good night, Scarhead.”

“Good night, Treacle.”

Draco drifted off to sleep, his last thoughts already weaving into happy dreams: 'Harry Potter, green eyes, stupid glasses, black bird's nest, fondness of treacle tart, we're getting married, he loves me, I love him, we're happy.'

Chapter Text

Um, so, why is the story called Storm Chasers?

Obviously because Draco chases the winter storms of The Wild Hunt, but also because Harry (subconsciously) chases the storm-grey of Draco's eyes.

And what about the weird chapter headings?

They're not weird! All headings are lines of the popular Christmas song Carol of the Bells. Of course, the lines are not in the right order, more like the way they fit with the content of the chapters. As the story is somewhat centred around Christmas, it seemed fitting.

Okay, how does the content fit the headings?

Glad you asked.

• The Prologue's On, on is referring to The Hunt, always moving on, forever and also corresponds to the last chapter's heading On without end, which reaffirms this.
• Chapter 1's Hark! How the bells refers to the bells one can hear coming from The Hunt when we first encounter it.
• Chapter 2's To young and old, meek and the bold refers to Draco visiting different people (e.g. McGonagall and the Weasleys) to get help.
• Chapter 3's Their joyful tone refers to the fact that we discover that The Hunt isn't the terrible thing we (and Draco) thought it was, but rather fun company.
• Intermezzo I's All seem to say refers to Draco's first thought of the chapter, when he thinks that all is pointing towards his family being send to Azkaban.
• Chapter 4's That is their song refers partly to Draco's blooming friendship with Ron and Hermione and partly to his new mantra before going to bed.
• Intermezzo II's From ev'rywhere refers to the Patchers, coming from all over Britain.
• Chapter 5's O, how they pound, raising the sound refers to the hoofbeat of the Hunt horses and how the 'sound', the feeling of The Hunt takes over Harry's perception, getting louder and louder (figuratively).
• In Intermezzo III Harry thinks how One seems to hear the echoes of the memories of the dead.
• In Chapter 6, Draco looks for Harry O'er hill and dale, so basically everywhere.
• Intermezzo IV's All caroling refers to the party and music for the re-opening ceremony.
• Chapter 7 has a Song of good cheer for the wedding.
• I had lots of fun by re-interpreting the meaning of Intermezzo V's Gayly they ring. I imagined them fighting, forming a ring with their arms. Well... gayly ^^
• Chapter 8's Throw cares away refers to the forgetting thus no longer caring.
• In Intermezzo VI Draco sings to Harry, so they work While people sing.
• In Chapter 9 we end the search by finally Telling their tale.
• In Chapter 10, Harry finally arrived back in his home, in their home, in Ev'ry home (think: everyone's home).
• The Epilogue's Christmas is here should just symbolise the homey feeling of the chapter.

Hm, but didn't you misspell some of those headings?

If you know the lines of the song differently that's because there seem to be some variations. I stuck with the sheet music of my choir.

Right, let's hear something about the content – when Draco, Ron and Hermione arrive at Cadair Idris, why are there still footprints when normally all traces of The Hunt disappear?

Because The Hunt left in the morning of the 26th, after sunrise, so the traces stayed until the next sunrise (on the 27th) erased them.

Yeah, about that, can you quickly explain the timeline? With all the jumping and time skips, one gets confused sometimes.

Sorry about that. I tried to implement a date fairly early in each chapter or after a time shift, but I can see, how that could have been a bit much.
Basically the story extends over a period of three years: intermezzo year, research year, epilogue year.
First year, right after the war, the intermezzos are like this:

• I (trial, June),
• II (patching, July before Harry's birthday),
• III (memorial site, early August),
• IV (Hogwarts re-opening, August 30th),
• V (fight, end of October),
• VI (portrait talk, mid-November).

Second year (half a year after the war), we start the main story in

• chapter 1 (Darry, night of December 25th),
• chapter 2 (Draco, night of December 25th and morning of December 26th),
• chapter 3 (Harry, morning of December 26th),
• chapter 4 (Draco, December 26th and morning of December 27th – Cadair Idris),
• chapter 5 (Harry, December 26th – Dreamer's birthday, 27th – Hoher Meißner, January 6th – barn),
• chapter 6 (Draco, January 6th – barn, March – Dreamer's dad, April – forgetting 'Harry'),
• chapter 7 (Draco, May – Romione engagement, June 15th – Romione wedding, July – Theo's letter, July 30th – meeting Anguis),
• chapter 8 (Harry, evening of January 6th – forget-me tea, January 7th – forgotten Draco, March – Capture The Flag, April 1st – masquerade ball, June – gang talk, July 29th – remembering Draco, July 30th – meeting Draco, August – Holle's return, September – artwork contest, October – hide-and-seek, November – Berchthold's return, December 24th – forgetting Draco/forgetting 'Potter'),
• chapter 9 (Draco, December 24th – Diagon Alley, December 25th – Romione's fight, December 26th – Patcher party, morning of January 1st – retrieving Harry),
• chapter 10 (Drarry, morning of January 1st),
• final chapter (Darry, morning of January 1st around 2 or 3 a.m. till sunrise).

Finally the epilogue holds a whole year after the night Harry returned, from January to New Year's Eve.

Well, that clears things up (and was unnecessary). Really, why are all your chapters so damn-ass long?

I can't help it?
And I planned the story beforehand. That some chapters got longer while I wrote wasn't exactly planned though, haha.

And what about the soundtrack thingy?

Shrug. Well, I always have music in me and I thought, why not?
By the way, I created a YouTube playlist for all songs of Storm Chasers.
I added a few bonus songs, such as mentioned songs (Pink Fluffy Unicorns, Bridal Chorus) or fitting background music (I Wanna Dance With Somebody – for the masquerade ball scene), as well as Harry's (#2 Homeward Bound, #3 Outnumbered) and Draco's (#2 Nada Sou Sou, 3# Haltet Die Welt An (English lyrics)) secondary and tertiary themes.

Fine, but with all this planning, why is dead character XYZ not in The Hunt? That would have been so cool.

Yeah, well. Frankly speaking, there are too many dead people in the Harry Potter universe. I could have included the Marauders, Lilly, Snape, Dumbledore, Dobby, Mad-Eye, Tonks, Cedric etc. But where to stop? It would have been too many, so I decided on the Fallen Four with the explanation that the Resurrection Stone called for The Hunt. I could have tried to include the unnamed Fallen of Hogwarts as well, but I think that joining The Hunt is a choice and the others just didn't take it.
And Hedwig... well, Hunt magic works differently on animals (and creatures). I think she remembered everything and she made her own journey to The Hunt (maybe with a bit of guidance by Life and Death) in the hopes to see Harry again. Because she was a smart owl.

If there are already too many dead people, why did you kill Dreamer/Anne's mom?

Er, that sort of just happened? I had several lore elements I wanted to include (soul being taken from a sleeper, someone getting punished for insulting The Hunt, geese honks getting quieter the closer you come when approaching death) and they just somehow fit like that. I wanted the sleeper's soul (=Dreamer) to be a baby because they would have to carry that person around all the time.

Speaking of which: Dreamer is the detached soul of the sleeping body of Anne. But Ron and Hermione had the following conversation after the barn incident:
Ron: “They didn't, like, take his soul or something?”
Hermione: “I don't think so. It's The Wild Hunt not Dementors, Ron.”
That doesn't fit?

Easy. At that point of the story they didn't know about Dreamer/Anne yet.
Though I've been thinking what a body is like after a Dementor's Kiss. The body of Dreamer just keeps sleeping (swept over to the side of death by her mother's demise, she would have died if she hadn't travelled with The Hunt, so Harry saved her life), but what happened to e.g. Barty Crouch Jr.? Hmh.

There's another anomaly in Hermione's reasoning though. She says that Ron saw a Grim in his cup in Divination, when it was Harry who had the Grim. What's wrong with her?

Nothing. She just can't remember Harry at that point and deducted that the Grim had to have been in Ron's cup.
(Now, here's something to think about – which came first? Trelawney's prophecy, Voldemort selecting Harry as his rival or Berchthold selecting Harry as Voldemort's best opponent? ...chicken&egg... self-fulfilling prophecy anyone?)

Not remembering, good point. You do remember hashtags and selfies weren't really a thing when the original story is set?

Yes, I'm aware, but frankly, I don't care. I'm a stickler for canon, if possible, but in this one instance I'm not. Why? For me the Harry Potter story is timeless, I don't see that is has to be placed in 199?. It can be anytime. So I made it now-ish, in that moment.

Apropos things: Where do the huntsmen get their stuff from (e.g. BraveHeart's brushes)?

They either carry them with them when they arrive or pick them up among the offerings from humans. Sometimes the moss folk provides stuff, such as food and drinks. All those things become part of The Hunt.

Still on the topic of things: When Theo sends the old cookbook, Draco says he can't cook well, but later there are French cuisine recipes in his kitchen?

Well, there are some months between. In the beginning Draco can't cook, but when Harry finally comes back, he's learnt. He's not too bad a chef.

Theo and Draco or Nott and Malfoy – isn't it weird the Slytherins are sometimes referring to each other by surname?

Sort of, but that's canon. I just took the pre-existing setting and piled on: Everyone who's somewhat close is at first name base, everyone else is called by surname.

• Draco calls them: Greg(ory), Vincent, Pansy, Millicent, Theodore (after the letter); Greengrass and Zabini.
• Pansy calls them: Draco, Greg, Vincent, Millicent; Greengrass, Zabini and Nott.
• Greg calls them: Draco, Vince(nt), Pansy, Theo; Bulstrode, Greengrass and Zabini.
• Theo calls them: Greg, Blaise, Draco (after offering a place to stay); Crabbe, Parkinson and Bulstrode.
• Daphne calls everyone by their surname.
• Millicent calls them: Draco, Greg, Vincent, Pansy; Greengrass, Zabini and Nott.
• Blaise calls them: Theo; everyone else by their surname.

Concerning Slytherins, why is your Crabbe such a positive character?

He isn't, at least not completely. I tried to implement that he's rather awful (in the beginning).
But as Draco says in The Cursed Child, they were never real close friends and I thought that Crabbe deserved to feel what it's like to have close friends. That is why he only slowly changes after being fully accepted into the group (something that only happens with Harry's appearance) and that why it's always him who points out the togetherness of the gang.

Back to the topic of calling each other strange names... did you have any more Potter names at hand?

I had! Lots.
These are the ones I didn't use: Pipi, Picker, Pervert, Popo, Papa, Pelly, Poopy, Piper, Paper, Pillow, Party, Penny, Peggy, Perse, Petting, Pippel, Pennant, Pendant, Prys, Philomen, Paxton, Paw, Porfirio, Portfolio, Pebbles, Piercing, Philter, Planet, Pitcher, Plum, Ponce, Poem, Pore, Putois, Posnet, Peebs, Pinching, Painter, Parker, Plummer, Plainware, Porcelain, Pigment, Pressure, Panties.

Yeah, that was fun with the wrong names and the forgetting of names and all, but, question: In the end, when Harry and Draco go to The Hunt and the gang all know Draco's name – how was that even possible?

Well, when Harry came back from his runaway day in Windsor Great Park, he told them about Draco, the name. He himself slowly forgot again, but as the name Draco somehow belonged to Harry('s history), the others could still remember on a certain level and when they saw him face to face, the name came to them.

Right. On the matter of belonging – why are there so many non-Drarry side characters(' scenes) in the story when they really weren't needed?

I like fleshing out side characters. But mostly, I wanted to give the dead a conclusion and some growth if possible. Ember/Crabbe gets softer and learns caring. BraveHeart/Colin lets go of his fear (of Death Eaters). Wolfe/Lavender finds love. Half/Fred gets to reconnect to his brother and Snowdrop/Hedwig can say farewell properly.

So, while we're at side characters: Are there any other known characters that are Patchers and if so, why weren't they at the Patchers Christmas party?

I'm sure there were many and also much more people in Draco's group, I just didn't want to fill in more names. But they were there (really, whomever you wish to have been there).

Relationships are key in this story. But about this one relation... Draco and Ron – Hermione said they're fourth cousins once removed. Is that true?

Honestly, it hurt my brain to figure that out and I'm not sure I did it right and if you have a different opinion, I would love to hear your reasoning. I just went like this: Sirius said that Arthur is his second-cousin once removed and Molly his cousin by marriage, whereas Draco is Sirius' cousin Narcissa's son. After drawing a crude family tree, fourth cousins once removed is what I came up with.

And now completely unrelated – what's with the capital letter chaos?

I stuck to the original for this one. If it's 'The' Battle of Hogwarts but 'the' Great Hall, don't blame me.

Well, it's 'the' Resurrection Stone, for sure. Or is it? The Stone seems to have conflicting powers?

The Tale of the Three Brothers states that Resurrection Stone ghosts have 'returned to the mortal world' (=real ghosts), but Hermione later says that they 'are also echoes of sorts, but like memories or more precisely, the ghost form of the way the owner of the Stone wishes the memories to be' (=imagination). I would like to answer this discrepancy with two quotes. The first by Sirius' Resurrection Stone ghost: “We are part of you. Invisible to anyone else.” And the second by Xenophilius Lovegood: “That's a children's tale.” Conclusion: The tale is just a tale and Hermione's right about the Stone's powers.
The only reason the Stone works differently for Harry and Draco in the Forbidden Forest is the fact that Harry is then using his right as master of Death to summon Death. He does so with the help of the Stone, as the Deathly Hallows are still linked to Death somehow.

Fine, but in that moment, in the Forrest, why can the boys look at Life and Death for so long when earlier it was stated that 'it was almost unbearable to observe those two so close together... it hurt the eyes like looking directly into flickering lights'?

Three reasons. One, because this off-ness exists only when Life and Death are both in human form, and two because Harry is aware of him being the master now and is no longer as affected. Also, three, Death and Life toned their presence down a bit, for Draco's sake, sensing Harry's wishes.

Okay, but then the end with the sunrise... again? What's with all the sunrise-scenes? Did you run out of ideas?

Hahaha, no. This is a deliberately chosen recurring motive. Call it symbolism, since essentially this story is about healing and hope. I like subtle things like that, such as the fact that when Draco forgot 'Harry' it thundered (Berchthold) and when he forgot 'Potter' it snowed (Holle). Also I love foreshadowing, such as having Harry ride a pale horse (reference to Death; don't say I hid things from you, it was all there in plain sight the whole time), or connecting chapters through little things (Draco sings a song, next chapter Harry sings a song etc.). The ambivalence of Hunt themes was also quite fascinating – is The Hunt good or bad (depends on perception), what is punishment, what reward... And also the many opposites there are in the story: life and death, hope and despair, Draco and Harry, but also Draco's solitary Christmas in the beginning of the story and his many Christmas parties in the end. Here also more symbolism: growth, acceptance from others but also accepting himself; going full circle. Just as when Harry first comes to The Hunt, he talks to Life and when his final talk (in the Forest) is with Death. Kind of poetic, don't you think?

Circling back, so names are playing a big role in this story. Tell us something about that?

Names have power. That is old wisdom. Therefore here a list of names of the protagonists. Most names are rather self-explanatory, I think, but some might not have been so obvious.

• Ron/Weasel
• Ginny/the Weasley girl (by Draco, when he doesn't bother referring to the Weasleys by name – he knows them, but he just doesn't care in the beginning)
• George/OtherHalf/Twin Weasley
• Percy/ Stuck-Up (Weasley)
• Bill/Earring
• Fleur/Beauxbaton
• Charlie/Wild-One
• Harry/Seeker/Scarhead
• Fred/Half
• Lavender/Wolfe (because she got bitten by a werewolf)
• BraveHeart/Colin
• Ember/Crabbe (because he died in a fire)
• Hedwig/Snowdrop
• Anne Withane/Dreamer (because she always sleeps at The Hunt... see what I did there with the last name?)
• Anne's uncle/Scoffer (because he mocked The Hunt and yes, he has a real name, but we'll never know it)
• Lightning/Invincible (Lightning because of Harry's scar, but also because my friend I. thought it hilarious whenever people said The Wild Hunt was 'riding on lightning' while we were watching Teen Wolf together which is how the whole idea of The Hunt took roots in my brain; Invincible is the name Ember picked, it's a nod to his own real first name Vincent)
• Gee (Half's horse is named after his brother's first initial G(eorge))
• Binky (Wolfe's horse is named after Lavender's late pet rabbit who died in the third book)
• Grapes (BraveHeart's horse was difficult to name – Camera? Dennis? Tiny? I went with grapes because when Colin got petrified by the Basilisk it happened because he was on his way to bring Harry some grapes)
• Berchthold/Death
• Holle (by Harry)/Perchta (by the gang)/Dormarth (as dog)/Frigg (when going out to bless the harvest)/Persephone (by Draco)/Huginn-Muninn (as night raven)/Life (and sort of The Beginning) (...Rolf ^^)

In that context – about Scarhead. So Draco said he didn't know who Harry was when they first met at Madam Malkin's. But with all the stories about the Harry Potter, wouldn't have Draco made the connection?

Apparently not. Probably Draco didn't expect the famous Harry Potter to look so shabby.

Since you were at it, explain a bit about the names of Life and Death? Why does Holle has so many names?

That wasn't planned at all, it just happened. Mostly because The Wild Hunt is a lore with many facets and versions.
As Draco states somewhere there are at least 20+ names for each of the two Hunt leaders. I chose by random or more precisely I chose those names I liked best from the heap.
Holle I took because I knew the fairy tale and thought it was funny. Berchthold... I just thought the name was unusual, so it appealed to me. In retrospective I should have named him Herne, for this version of The Hunt's leader seems to be most wide-spread.
The reason that Holle gets to change names all the time and Berchthold doesn't is simply because I realised that it was confusing enough with one character who has a new name every other chapter (let alone the Hunt names of the gang...).

Speaking of The Hunt – is that all real lore? You made some stuff up, didn't you.

I did. Although really 90 percent of Hunt stuff derives from 'real' lore. All the weird little side episodes, details or titbits you find about The Hunt have some connection to lore I found while researching.
What I made up is really only the smallest part. However those are some important things:

• the forgetting: That is totally not lore and I blatantly took this from the Teen Wolf season about The Wild Hunt, yet added a bit with the people in The Hunt also forgetting and also the part where people outside The Hunt instantly forget what they've been told about the stolen (I got inspired by Buffy, season five).
• the bracelet: The bracelet with the countdown knots was my invention. Mostly because I wanted to implement the colours red and white (main Hunt colours according to lore) and also for suspense, to have a visual threat to Harry's life.
• Somewhen things: Totally made up. I needed a reason for Harry and the gang to interact in the first place.
• the part where moss folk are souls of unborn children: That idea just kinda fit, I don't know.
• The Last Ride: It just sounded fancy. It's true that lore says The Hunt stops hunting on January 6th, but it says nowhere that's called The Last Ride.
• The Beginning: Hunt lore is very diverse and I couldn't pinpoint exactly what game The Hunt is hunting. Normal (alive) animals or ghost animals? Or Holle? Or moss folk? My sources were very vague on that front and mostly not adding up, so I decided to make my own prey and invented The Beginning. What exactly that is is hard to explain. I would say, a part of Holle's that, when the time comes, heralds the start of a new circle of life.

So, everything else is real lore?

Basically, yes.
When I started out I thought of reading a Wikipedia article on The Hunt and be done with it, but there were references and links left and right and I spent hours puzzling together the information I used in the end.
(By the way, what I did not make up was the term Sunday Children. That's a real thing – people born on Sundays are said to be magical and vice versa, magical people are assumed to have been born on a Sunday.)
Most astonishingly were the coincidental connections to the Harry Potter universe. The Deathly Hallows as Holle's doing? Yeah, I invented that connection, but the base was set by lore. She really is guardian of the treasures of the earth interior (Stone), weaving/clothes (Cloak) and... elder... when I saw elder, I thought “Jackpot!” (And JKR said in an interview once that the core of the Elder Wand is a Thestral tail hair, so the obvious choice was Berchthold's horse Sleipnir). Also all the other small things – Holle's blinding breath, reward and punishment, protection from fire, Berchthold as Death – it just fit. All I had to do was write it down.

You said 'information I used in the end' – was there information you found but didn't use?

Yes. I deliberately excluded all major references to (Christian) religion. The Harry Potter universe is sort of religion-free and I felt it better to stick with that then to step on someone's toes.
That's the main reason, Berchthold's and Holle's curses are kept vague. Because both their origins lie within religious beliefs.
The persona of Berchthold was supposedly cursed to spearhead The Hunt forever because he, once a living nobleman, dared to hunt on a most important holiday (Good Friday) which was an offence. That one's the most common story.
I also did not use the part where lore indicated the leader of The Hunt was the Devil himself and The Hunt contained real demons.
Nor the implication the 'pale rider' would be the first rider of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (although, technicall, if/when The Hunt ever catches The Beginning...might just be the Apocalypse?).
It would have just been too much hassle to fit that in (and also kinda religiousy).
Holle on the other hand... well, I thought first, her name was derived from the German word Hölle which means hell and would fit the Mother Holle fairy tale where the Marys fall down into Holle's realm. But only recently I found out that Holle actually used to be the German adjective hold (fair/lovely) as in The Fair *** (her name is lost actually). She seems to have been a goddess of nature (or even Mother Nature herself, I did not include that version because I only found out after I was finished) and then Christianity asked for only one God and she had to disappear, but the people still wanted to pray to her. Saying her name was forbidden though, so they just called her The Fair (Die Holde) which somehow along the way turned into Holle.

That's a lot of information. Wasn't it difficult to fit that all into the story?

Yes, quite. Especially since the personae of the leader of The Hunt and the crone often intertwine, overlap or trade places.
Most times, the leader is a man and sometimes he hunts the crone. But then there are accounts where she is the leader and he is her servant. Or she is his servant. Sometimes they are married. Sometimes one of them is an animal or inanimate object.
It was really difficult to decide on one storyline while giving credit to all the opposing pieces of lore. Which characteristics to give to whom? What to include/exclude?
In the end, I separated the information I found into four major groups: the leader, the crone, the prey and basic Hunt lore.
If you're interested, here are all the names I found. (If not, scroll on.)

• the leader: Some leader personae are said to have been living people once like Berchthold, Dietrich von Bern/Theodoric the Great, Hanns von Hackelberg, Sigurd Svein/Sigurdhr Fáfnisbani and Siegfried.
  Some are more like fairy tale characters like Rübezahl, Waude, Elbel, Maltitz, Türst, Vorpercht, King Herla and the female Frau Gauden/Gode/Gaur/Wohl/Gauerken.
  Whereas some versions are rather known in different capacities such as Death, but also the Norse god Odin/Wotan, Hekate the goddess of Magic, god of the hunt Herne (lives at Windsor Great Park) and Arawn and Gwynn ap Nudd, both lords of the fairy realm (live at Cadair Idris).
  Then there are countless nicknames such as Hate Hunter, Light Hunter, Mad Hunter, Night Hunter, Vanguard, Harlequin (which derives from Hell King?! I did not know that), Rider on a White Horse/Pale Rider and Erlking (both last-mentioned have rather famous poems written about them, too).
• the crone: Wow, this persona has like a hundred different names and associated characters. She is sort of an essence of lots of Germanic goddesses.
  One 'real' person called Guro Rysserova/Gudhrun Gjúkadottir.
  Her fairy tale persona of Mother Holle/Holda/Hulda/Hella/Muhme Mählen/Old Mother Frost of course.
  Then nature-linked characters like (Frau) Perchta/Percht/Berchta/Berta/Bertha/Butzebercht, Spindle Holle/Hooded Holle/Spillaholle/Spillahole/Spillahôle/Spillahulle/Spiella/Satzemsuse/Mickadnolle/Mickatrulle/Popelhole/Popelhôle/Zumpeldrulle/Spillagritte/Spillmartha/Spellalutsche/Spillalutsche (with the stone house), Frow Selden, Shrub Grandmother/Shrub Woman, Pusch-Grohla, Frau Herke, Murawa and White Chapel Woman.
  And characters linked to the male counterpart, such as Mallt-y-Nos (with Arawn).
  As well as characters related to witchcraft such as Hekate (see what I mean, double role -.-) and Herodias.
  Not to forget all the many goddesses whose incarnation/version she is: Persephone/Persephassa/Persephatta/Kore/Kora/Despoina/Nestis (mostly goddess of the underworld), Proserpina/Proserpine/Libera (queen of the underworld), Frigg/Frigga (counterpart to Odin/Wotan, mostly goddess of the heavens – yeah, not confusing at all – Persephone hell and Frigg heaven?!), Isis (mostly goddess of reincarnation), Artemis (goddess of hunting), Artio (also goddess of hunting... and bears), Selene (goddess of the moon), Luna/Lucina/Trivia/Phoebe/Dictynna/Cynthia (also goddess of the moon), Diana/also Lucina??/Abundia/Juno (goddess of hunting AND the moon) and Eileithyia/Ilithya/Hera (goddess of birth).
  (By now you have a pretty good idea about the troubles I had to fit all these different, conflicting personae into one character for the leader and the crone each. It was a hassle...)
• the prey: Yes, the prey... contrary to the 'human' characters in The Hunt there was very little concrete information on the prey.
  I suppose it's mostly implied to be normal game (animals and such).
  But also often the crone persona (again, confusing as hell) in the form of Skogrå/Huldra (=Holle?) or Frau Perchta.
  Then there is the fairy aspect (connected to Arawn lord of the fairy realm) in form of the Salingen/Salgfrauen (fairy-like), Rilpen/Nymphs/Fae and the moss folk/Moss Women/Rüttelweiber. Connecting to Odin/Wotan, these characters are also linked to the Valkyries.
  Last but not least, one form of prey was souls (of wrongdoers), which I implemented a bit, but not in the moss folk.
• basic Hunt lore: In this category, I collected all the little things, like all the many animals that supposedly ride with The Hunt/one of the aforementioned characters and the characteristics of The Hunt (When? Who – aside from Holle/Berchthold? Where? Why?). Except for the White Cliffs of Dover, all places and countries mentioned have connections to The Hunt. As for the use of (toy) weapons in the Capture The Flag game, I was reluctant, but they are lore and I wanted to implement that. Most fun here were the rituals/customs and the ever varying interpretation of The Hunt (good/bad).

...don't you think it's time to apologise for this unsolicited information dump?

Yes. Sorry! >.<

Why did you do this to us then if you're sorry?

Well... I spent so much time researching that I made a joke in the beginning of the story that I would write a paper on Hunt lore when I'm done. This is kinda it.
I probably bored the hell out of you (really sorry!) and definitely forgot some stuff, but yeah. Someone had asked for information on The Hunt, so here you go. If you ever want to know something specific, drop a comment.
And really, I think, by writing it all down once more, I could get it out of my head. I had The Hunt hunting my thoughts for half a year ^^°

Alright. Anything else you'd like to share?

Well, I just met you and this is crazy but here's my Discord, so write me maybe: mimbelwimbel_0589
Honestly though, thank you guys for coming along and indulging me. I hope to see you soon~

Wait! One last question: Any future work?

I want to say no, because writing is super time consuming, but... okay, so I already have a new plot idea which has been greenlit by my beta. So... I'll probably start soon ^^° If you feel like giving another story of mine a chance, come find me around the beginning of June.

Goodbye <3