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Chapter Text

The wedding was a pale and boring affair. Crème and grey. Held on the Manor’s estate, of course. Everything had been lit with candles, of course. It had been very elegant. Of course.

It all felt very medieval, like they were being given away to each other. Unwanted gifts. For seven hours Astoria looked not at him, but the ground. This shouldn’t have made Malfoy feel bad, as he didn’t care. And it didn’t—not personally. But his ego?

“She could be a bit grateful,” he’d said to Blaise in the bathroom, undoing his trousers, and pushing his cock as far down the best man’s throat as he could handle. “At least she’s marrying someone pretty.”

Mother fussed with floral arrangements the entire time. It didn’t matter that they’d hired the best of the best, no one knew how to do other people’s jobs better than her.

Father hadn’t shown. Just as well.

The papers covered the whole thing, of course. Relished in the crystal and porcelain grandeur of it all, described the coveted Malfoy wealth with such excitement one might have forgotten there ever was a war, that he had ever been on trial for—well. A number of hideous charges. And this was the goal, he suspected. To have people forget. Forgive. Accept. That sort of thing.

But he had not forgotten, and the night terrors were so persistent that he and his new bride slept in opposite ends of the Manor.

“I can manage the marriage,” she’d said over tea. Dark circles of unrest had become more prominent as the week continued. “But the screaming? I’ll stay in one of the guest rooms.”

They hardly saw each other after the honeymoon, and these were circumstances that fit him just fine. They would eventually produce an heir, but the first year would be spent building their public image. Going to dinner parties, ministry balls, charity events, accepting every invitation to make empty speeches on rehabilitation and a Newer Wizarding World. 

As his mother said: “They goal isn’t to exist as a part of it, you understand, but to become its center.”

He was beautiful, he was sorry, they were adored. It was only natural—it isn’t as if the system had really changed. Just rebranded.

It wasn’t as if he had changed. 

It was what Mother wanted, needed—and how could he deny her? After everything?

Blaise was over three nights a week, never for dinner. They would fuck, smoke on the balcony then move into the bathroom for another round. Once in a while they would talk, but they’d long since run out of things to say.

Three months into the marriage, he found himself arm-in-arm with his wife at a ministry event where many affluent families made a hobby of writing checks. Pictures were taken, a speech was given by a very shy witch who was head of a new campaign spreading awareness of those who lost their wands in the war. The Malfoy Estate, of course, made a rather sizable, personal donation.

Astoria chatted with old school pals about curtains and babies. Another front. He did not know how she spent her time but it was not on interior design—when it came to The Manor it was Pansy who showed up with paintings or a new Persian rug, not his wife. Malfoy stood beside her, a statue. Maybe fit himself into a spot at the bar beside a vaguely familiar Ravenclaw, or a foreign diplomat who knew nothing of him, nothing of their war, and drink enough to keep himself comfortably buzzed. In the early days, it wouldn’t be uncommon to see the gaggle of Weasleys, Lovegood, Granger—the lot one would expect to get involved with altruistic post-war activism. But they had whittled away over the years. Must’ve come to understand that construction paper and glue held together the wizarding government—that war wasn’t a means for change. Not all at once. Immediate action: that’s what the Gryffindors were looking for, what they wouldn’t find in a world so concerned with its tradition.

Potter was the first of his group to stop attending. “To give up on us,” Malfoy said once to Blaise, but he knew his rival better than that. There had been a terrible commotion when Potter went missing the first time. Everyone had thought him dead—everyone but Draco.

Draco Malfoy had always known Harry Potter would disappear.

Chapter Text

Harry had never liked his birthday. Before the war, it reminded him of his parents. During school, he didn’t know what to do with the new attention. After the war, all he could think about were the people who should have been packed into the Leaky for drinks and were not.

“Will you pass the salt?”

“It’s on your end of the table.”

“Oh right, so it is.”

What he liked best about living with Oliver Wood was he’d always been too preoccupied to remember what a birthday even was , much less which was Harry’s. Birthdays, weddings, anniversaries: none of these things magically evanesco -ed the quidditch pitch. The only exception to Wood’s unswaying fixation was Christmas, and that’s because Christmas was always an exception.

“I got a letter from Angela saying she’s officially signed with the Wasps. Isn’t that something? I always thought she’d be a better fit for the Harpies,” he said, flinging salt over whatever mash mix he’d found in the cabinet for breakfast.

“I like the way the beaters for the Wasps looked last year,” Harry replied. “Real rough pair—Tailor and, what was it? Murphy?”

“Nah mate, Murphy dropped the Wasps and took up for the Kestrals on the off-season. You’re lookin’ at Jansen now. Dutch witch, mean right hook—“ Wood’s brow furrowed as he rubbed the side of his cheek. “You might remember. Tall? Blonde? Knocked me in the jaw at the Leakey on St. Patty’s?”

Harry shook his head.

“I didn’t go out on St. Pat’s.”

“Course you didn’t. Hm. How’s ‘bout walnut, curved handle, bassine bristles, gold little cuff thing.”

“Coil,” he corrected. “With the fox detailing?”

“How should I know, mate? It was the heaviest broom you made, a fuckin’ clunker. Think she’s ‘bout the only active player who could swing that thing around like it’s nothing. Girl’s a wall.”

“Right, you helped me deliver that one,” Harry said. “Not my most impressive.”

“Don’t think she wanted it to be impressive,” Wood grumbled.

“It was a mean looking broom.”

“Mean looking girl.”

“Very unkind, Wood. Maybe that’s why she knocked you?” Harry asked.

“Thought I was getting fresh with her so I’d throw off her arrows,” he replied, lifting his bowl up to scrape what was left into his mouth.

“Were you?”

Wood sighed, dramatically tossing his bowl back onto the table.

“ Wotcher ,” Harry snapped, standing to put his own dishes in the sink, picking up Wood’s on the way. He pulled his sleeve over his hand to rub at where the bowl scuffed the table “Redwood nicks, eh?”

“Easy, sorry,” Wood said, waving a hand. “I wasn’t not . She’s a real fine beater but her arrows’ arm is killer. Ten Galleons on the line, what’s a guy to do?”

“You could be better at arrows. What’s the time?”

“Forty-three past eleven.”

“And the consultation’s at twelve?” Harry asked, spraying water over their bowls before loading them into the dishwasher. Wood had moved up from his chair to stretch, an obnoxious routine of flexing and pulling that Harry couldn’t watch for too long without laughing.

“Right. I’ve got a meeting with a seeker scout on the pitch, twelve-thirty. You won’t fuck this up, will you?”

It was a harmless question, but Harry still couldn’t help the swirl of sick.

“Wood, I was meeting with clients long before you stuck your grubby little hands in my business.”

“Alright, alright, Harry Potter doesn’t need ol’ coach Oliver to tell him what to do, does he?” Wood bit back. “Sooner or later you’ll be kickin’ me back onto the street to fend for myself. Poor, destitute Wood.”

Harry gave him a look, to which his friend’s features softened.

“It’s a joke,” he said.

“I know,” Harry replied. He stood to open their potions cabinet and the sick spun faster. “Am I meant to be you today? Not sure if the polyjuice is any good.”

“I’ll be on telly later, mate. Dunno if she’s the sort to follow league news, but it’s better safe."

Harry nodded, because there wasn't much else to say. Wood was an easier put-on, but the last thing either of them needed was to get caught.

"I’ll be late catching the portkey,” Wood said. “You sure you’ll be alright?”

“Yes.” No.

Wood watched him for a moment before shrugging and snatching his coat from the back of his chair.

“Don’t forget it’s meant to rain, mate,” he shouted as he left, the heavy door of Number 12 Grimmauld place slamming hard behind him.

Concealment charms weren’t difficult, but Harry was rusty. It had taken fifteen minutes to re-arrange his face into his “second identity:” James Connors, a large-nosed, spectacled, freckled Northerner he and Neville had cooked up one night during a drunk round of “face-changer.” The game ended with them on the edge of Harry’s eighth-year bed, speaking in small voices of what it was like to hide.

Harry was three-and-a-half minutes late apparating to the Diagon Alley office. He was met with a sharply-dressed blonde woman seated across from Wood’s functional mindi wood desk (gifted the day Harry had Wood had opened the office doors in London). 

“The door was open,” she said, standing.

“It’s on a timer,” Harry replied. She stared toward the door. He stood. She coughed.

“I’ve owled with Oliver Wood. I have an appointment,” she said, looking around Harry, likely in hopes that Wood would stride in behind him. Confident. Smiling.

Harry hurried around the back of the desk and started shuffling papers.

“We’ve got you on the books. He had an engagement elsewhere, I’m afraid. My name is Connors—“

“His associate,” she said. “Yes, he mentioned. I just hadn’t known who to look for.”

Her smile was easy, her tone was cold. Harry swallowed and gestured toward the seats.

“Please, please,” he said, and she returned exactly to where she’d been. “Now I suppose you’ll be wanting to talk about commissioning a broom miss—“

He shuffled the papers more, looking around for Wood’s little red appointment book.

“Green.”

“Sorry, yes, Miss Green.” He looked up and she was smiling, but not in a way that was particularly reassuring. “A broom. That’s what you’ve come to discuss.”

“That is the business you’re in,” she replied. “I’m looking to have a broom made for my husband for our fifth wedding anniversary. I was told there would be a consultation before the maker agreed to the project.”

“Yes,” Harry said, moving Wood’s papers to the side. “He’s got a pretty long wait list.”

“I’m aware.” That smile again. The turning sick.

“The consultation is to make sure the recipient of the broom and the maker would be a good fit—it’s my—his— our belief, I suppose, that custom brooms are quite like wands. Never the same twice, fitted to the rider. The questions and the meeting are really just the beginning. You say the broom would be for your husband?”

“Yes, an anniversary gift.”

“Is he a frequent flier?” Harry asked.

“Frequent, no. Passionate, yes,” she said. “He played seeker in school. He was quite good.”

“Drumstrang? Beauxbatons? Uagadou?”

“Hogwarts,” she said, pointedly—proudly.

“Which house, then?” at this, she paused. Though she maintained her posture, the woman’s eyes flicked back to the wall behind him for just a moment. “Ma’am?”

“Slytherin.”

“Right. Why has he stopped?”

“Not stopped, slowed ,” she said, folding her arms. “They have said perhaps he might have gone professional, if things had been different.”

“And who said?”

“Pardon me?”

“And who said he might have gone professional?” Harry repeated, knowing he was a bit terser than Wood might’ve been.

“Plenty of reputable trainers. Coaches. Players,” she clenched her jaw.

“What sorts of things kept him?”

“Many things.”

Harry tapped on the desk and waited. The woman sighed.

“Being that we seem a similar age, Mr. Connors, I believe you might fill in the blanks.”

“Ah.” Harry said. “Yes. War and all.”

It wasn’t an unusual thing, the partners of various Hogwarts fliers requesting a broom for someone who might have gone pro, who might have kept at it if only for, who really is talented, was talented, could have been talented—    

These were cases Harry rarely took on.

“There are a number of broom-makers in the United Kingdom Miss—“

“Missus Green .”

“Yes, sorry, Missus Green. Why are you looking to employ our Mr. Wood?”

She folded her arms tighter, rumpling her blazer. It would always be amusing to Harry how quickly the wizarding world adopted muggle fashions after the war. Especially those who had the right money and the wrong connections.

“I have seen Mr. Wood’s work and it is the best in practice and quality. My husband and I are together five years next February. I want to do something special. I want to commission the best work he’s ever done.”

“And what do you think that looks like?” Harry asked, the sick settling but not entirely. “The best he’s ever done, I mean? What would that sort of broom look like to you?”

There was a spark in her eye Harry didn’t quite like.  

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Ten thousand galleons?”  

When wealthy wizards looked for a custom broom, this was a frequent tactic. The money throwing. The wonderful thing, though, about Harry’s situation was that he could afford to say no. Ten thousand galleons for one of Harry’s brooms was a ridiculous amount—the most any single person had ever paid was fifteen hundred, and it was only because the client had chosen Bubinga, a rarer wood, in a very specific grain and pattern.

“A broom isn’t worth so much, Missus Green,” Harry said. “Anyhow, I didn’t mean price.”

“But Mr. Wood’s expertise? Another story, I think.”

“Any broom-maker would be lucky to have your resources,” Harry said, and he saw the woman relax. “I can refer you to one of our brilliant colleagues in the States—“

“No, Mr. Connors, it must be Oliver Wood who takes on the project,” she dismissed him. “If you won’t hear my offer I’ll have to insist on speaking directly to the maker.”

“Ma’am,” Harry said, “you don’t understand. A no from me is as good as a no from Mr. Wood. We evaluate potential clients equally. I am sorry that we won’t be able to meet your needs, Mrs. Um.”

“ Green .”

“Mrs. Green ,” Harry stood. “I’m sure you’ll find a fine craftsman for your, um. Ambitious project.”

It should have been an open-and-shut case. He wasn’t even sure why Wood had scheduled an appointment with the woman in the first place. Maybe it was the money. Maybe she’d sent an especially heartbreaking letter. Maybe this was how most screenings went for Wood—if that were true Harry figured he should look into giving him a raise.

“Fifteen thousand galleons,” she said. Harry shook his head. “Twenty.”

“Missus Green, this isn’t an auction house.“

“Fifty.”

“No,” he said. “I’m sorry, I just don’t think we’re a good fit.”

She nodded once, twice. Had accepted defeat until the moment she reached the door, where she lay her hand on the frame, turned back to look at him.

“Mr. Connors. There is one thing I think you should know. I haven’t been quite honest about my situation. My husband’s situation.”

\Her husband is sick, Harry’s sure. He’s dying. He’s fallen and broken both of his legs and this broom will be his only source of transportation. Her husband is the Minister of Magic, her husband is the Head of Magical Games and Sports, her husband is an Irish diplomat, her husband is the Pope, her husband is God, her husband is—

“My husband is Draco Malfoy.”

Harry froze. His hand hovered over the scheduler. She took the silence as an opportunity.

“You’re familiar with the name,” she said.

“I’ve heard it.”

“Favorably?” she asked, a knowing tone.

“Not especially,” he said. She approached the desk again, placing her purse in the chair and gripping her hands on the edge. Mrs. Green—Malfoy, he supposed—leaned over him in a way that resembled Auror interrogators.

“Where did you go to school, Mr. Connors? Hogwarts?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Were you here?” For the war was left unspoken.

“For parts,” Harry said, truthfully, he liked to think.

“Did you find yourself on the right side?” she asked.

“There was never a question for me,” he said, nearly venomous now. “And you, Mrs. Malfoy?”

“Greengrass,” she corrected—sharp, quick. “My family sent me away. I spent time with a family of Slavic wizards. We had trouble communicating. Lifestyle differences, prejudices, pride, etcetera. I returned for the explicit purpose of being married off. To have children. To save face for a family I don’t exactly care for. A contract made before I was born, Mister Conners.”

“My sympathies,” Harry replied. She snorted.

“Yes, your heart bleeds for me,” she rolled her eyes—a moment of open, pure disgust on her face. For her situation, for him, for herself, Harry couldn’t tell. She re-composed almost immediately. Snakelike. “Would it alter your opinion, Mr. Connors, to know this is a parting gift?”

Harry was quiet for a moment. She took this as a sign to continue.

“My husband is vain, prideful, and useless,” she said. “Not much different from when he was a teenager. Clinging to his mother—militant witch. I know there will be further conversations with my husband. Personality evaluations. I’ve done my research.”

The woman opened her purse, extracted a tall, thin black bottle, and placed it on the counter.

“Mr. Malfoy is private. He won’t deal with Mr. Wood directly. I was hoping a bit of financial encouragement might soften the blow of asking him to take this before their meetings.”

“What is it?” Harry asked, despite himself.

“Polyjuice,” she said simply.

“Oliver Wood would never agree to that,” Harry said. Her eyes were locked on his.

“Would you?” she asked.

Harry swallowed.

“One hundred thousand galleons,” he said.

“Done,” she said, and he could hardly hear the click of her heels or the flash of her apparition. The bottle was left on the desk.

xx

The last time Harry Potter spoke to Draco Malfoy was thirteen years ago.

It had been his birthday.

“Aren’t we meant to be at the Burrow tonight?” Wood asked, coat half-off the moment he walked through the door. The scout meeting clearly hadn’t gone according to plan. His brow was drawn, and there was a specific pinch in the middle of his red forehead that Harry knew meant not to ask.

“We’re meant to go to the burrow every Friday night,” Harry replied, his feet kicked up on the coffee table in the living room (redwood, too, but with a glass cover—it had been a present for Ginny, which had really been a present for himself; she reminded him of this very vocally when they broke up for the second time). “Want tea? Kettle’s on.”

“No, no mate I think we ought go to the Burrow—” Wood was struggling with the pocket of his coat, which had turned inside out when he’d thrown it away from himself. From it, he pulled a folded piece of parchment with a distinctly floral hand. “Percy says he’ll kill me. It’s written in red ink, see? Like blood. My blood, Harry.”

“Yes Wood, and all things written in ink are law,” Harry rolled his eyes. “Fuck Percy, sit down. Have a cuppa.”

“ Fuck Percy , like that’s any way of talking about your mate. Now get your ass up and suffer people loving you for an hour at least. When they sing I’ll stand in the corner and make faces and if you drink too much I’ll hold your hair back.”

So, Wood hadn’t forgotten. Peachy.

“He’s your mate, not mine. Besides, I don’t have much hair to hold.”

“Then I’ll grab your neck and shake out the sick.”

Harry crossed his arms.

“I think I’m alright for tonight.”

Wood sighed through his nose, sat down at the kitchen table.

“Look, Harry, it’s been ages since any of us all coordinated and got together in one spot—come from all over to pack themselves in that little house—because they want to see you and for some fucking reason still think you want to see them. I don’t blame you for not wanting to go, but if you don’t you’re going to have all those people from all those places in your apartment, and there won’t be anything I can do about it. Show up. Be a spectacle. Don’t say shit. Give Molly a kiss on the cheek and leave. I don’t care. They just—“ he chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. “It’s only been a year since you’ve come back, mate.”

A beat.

“I’ll get my coat.”

As Wood said, everyone had been invited and everyone had come: Hermione in from Norway, Ron asked for the night off from Auror duties, Krum in from Merlin knows where; George, Angela, Dean, Seamus, Luna, Nev and Hannah. Everyone packed into the corners of the Burrow in house colors and Weasley sweaters, pouring drinks, chatting about what they’d been up to. In this way, Harry’s birthday felt more like a funeral. An excuse to practice remembering.

The moment they’d walked in, everyone had started shouting. Of course Harry knew this was the good-natured sort, but that didn’t stop the sting from seizing him, and no amount of clenching his hands in his pockets was going to stop Wood from seeing.

“Deep breaths mate,” he whispered, leaning over to give Bill a firm handshake. “If it gets too rough we’ll go.”

It was a beautiful party. Of course it was. Molly and Arthur had taken the time to charm little paper brooms which bobbed and floated above guests’ heads, lights strung to their bristles. The decorations were Gryffindor colors, and the cake was a three-tiered monstrosity which sang and popped and turned a different flavor with each bite.

The presents were too thoughtful: new steel-toe work boots from Ron; a handsaw which hung on the wall and sang a Beatles melody from George; a leather-bound journal from Hermione with a particularly nasty protection charm; a bottle of primo-firewhiskey from Bill and Fleur (‘you’ll have to lock that away from me,’ Wood joked, and everyone had laughed but Harry); embroidered flying gloves from Nev; a new blue “H” sweater from Molly with matching socks.

Surrounded by wrapping paper and expecting faces and music and laughter, Harry could only exist in birthdays sharper than the present. Witness stands and pinched brows and Ron, red as he was now but in a worse way, in an angry way, and— 

“I’ve got to have a smoke, I think,” he told Wood, who nestled next to Luna on the couch beside him. 

“I’ll come with,” Wood said, detangling himself.

“No, no it’s alright, I’ll be—“

“Oh, stay where you are Oliver, I need fresh air anyhow.” Hermione appeared out of nowhere to extend a hand, lifting Harry from the avalanche of crumpled paper.

The last time Harry Potter spoke to Draco Malfoy was thirteen years ago, after his mother’s trial.

He’d had as much difficulty lighting up then as he did now, hiding among the bushes in Molly Weasley’s garden. Hermione leaned against Arthur’s outdoor workbench (cedar, naturally rot-resistant, a congrats-on-the-new-nonministry-job gift that Harry was quite proud of). Indoors, submerged somewhere in the orange light and green glass of the kitchen, the party kept on.

“What a terrible, foul habit,” she said, scowling at the box of cigarettes when offered.

“I’m a compulsive sharer,” Harry said, “it’s quite a solid coping mechanism.” 

“I’ve got enough vices of my own, thanks,” she pursed her lips, but pulled her wand from her pocket to light him regardless. “How’s work?”

“Terrible,” she said, by which she meant wonderful . “You would think Durmstrang has a more developed library than it does—my research is all fieldwork. Emphasis on field . Ron hates how long I’m gone but Viktor’s happy to have me in the apartment. When he’s there, of course. You can’t imagine how difficult he is to nail down.”

Harry could, actually.

As if on cue there was a pop, a fizz, and the roar of equal parts English and Bulgarian shouting, smothered in a distinctly Georgian laugh. Hermione spared the house a glance, but settled further in the overgrown ivy that covered the back wall of the Burrow.

“I’m lucky to have drawn them both out, then,” Harry said. She smiled.

“I should be thanking you. It’s rare we’re all in the same room these days. It’s like a reunion—Ron charmed the bed bigger for us all to fit. Our lives have gotten so fast…”

She stared back at the house for a moment, wistful.

“How long are you here?” He asked.

“Another day or so,” she said, “Viktor’s asked McGonagall to get a look at the new crop of fliers, maybe you’ll have him until the end of the week?”

“Mm.”

Harry wasn’t close with Krum. They ran in the same circles (of course they did, Harry was a custom broom maker who lived with the offensive coach of the Ballycastle Bats—of course they did, Krum was with his oldest friends—of course they did, Krum had gotten Harry a wonderful cashmere scarf for his birthday), but the Quidditch star was too busy to be properly chummy. When he was in town, Ron would bring him around for pub nights, and he fit in well enough. But, ultimately, Krum was an acquaintance. Krum was someone to drink with. Krum was someone to fly with.

 “I hear Oliver’s trying to bribe a flier out of New Zealand.”

“Trying,” Harry nodded. “We’ll have to get lunch, then.  If you’ll be here.”

“The time is there,” she smiled, which was as good as a yes. “Maybe we should stop by Puddifoots.”

“Yeah. Right. Follow that with light browsing at the Shrieking Shack.”

“And I’ll pick up a few ancient tomes from Zonko’s.”

They stood together in silence, the rain and the smoke mixed with whatever pungent orange thing Molly had planted to devour the stone fence.

“I miss this,” she said finally.

“What?”

“All of us being together.”

“But not enough to come back.” It would have sounded sharp to any other ears. Hermione smiled.

“No. No I don’t think so,” she said, but looked longingly toward the back door. “In another life I think I would have stayed. Tried at Minister of Magic.”

“Why not this one?”

“I’ve dealt with enough political brushfires,” she shook her head. Another long pause. “How are you Harry?”

“Getting on.”

“We don’t owl half as much as we used to,” she said.

“No. Comes with getting old.”

“We ought to change that,” she said. He knew they wouldn’t. “It’s good to see Luna and Oliver doing so well. Odd couple.”

“They seem happy enough,” Harry snorted. “I keep waiting for him to wake up one day and tell me he’s already packed his things and moved into her apartment in Diagon. You know, ‘still not too far from the office, Harry.’”

“I don’t think they’re ready for that, it’s hardly been a year.”

“Yeah. Well.” He didn’t want to say anything about how quickly she’d shacked up with Ron—how quickly she and Ron had shacked up with Krum. He hadn’t been around for the social catastrophe which had been “the Krum thing,” and though neither of them outwardly said he should feel guilty about it, there was an implication. An implication that, when too drunk, Ron would make explicit over the music at the pub. That was only after he’d had a particularly rough day at work, though, or when it had been weeks or months since they’d seen one another. Harry knew how to forgive this shouting. He’d been doing it for as long as he could remember.

“Have you heard from Charlie recently?”

Hermione had never been particularly adept at smooth transitions.

“Um. No.”

“Ah. Do you expect to?”

“No.”

“Right.” Another pause. “Would you like to?”

“Certainly not.”

“Yes. Okay.”

That was all the conversation Harry was willing to have about Charlie Weasley. Hermione seemed happy enough to drop it. 

“Have you finished, then?”

“It’s been out for ages,” he said.

Neither of them moved.

“Happy birthday, Harry.”

“Thanks ‘Mione.”

Ginny did show, eventually. Right off the heels of practice—her hair wind-wild, her cheeks pink with sun, her t-shirt sweat through. He was delighted to see her because she, like Wood, knew better than to carry on with sentimentality. Instead, Ginny spat at his feet, gave him a big, wet hug, and shoved a remembrall in his hand that would explode instead of coloring.

“You look right shit,” she’d said before disappearing, leaving Harry as soon as she’d slammed into him. Like our relationship, he might have cut at Wood if his friend hadn’t been in deep conversation with her older brother.

“Harry, Harry, I was just telling Perce about that ridiculous woman I set you up with this morning—”

“For an appointment,” Harry said to Percy’s quirked brow.

“—I never did ask how that went mate, sorry to have dumped her on you but she really just wouldn’t take no, and I had that meeting for the Bats—“

“I told her I’d see what we could do,” Harry said.

“Huh?”

“She gave me a quote on what would be available for resources.” He turned to Percy, “A hundred thousand Galleons for a broom, can you believe it?”

Percy whistled, Wood’s jaw hung open.

“Will this broom reform the ministry, then, Harry?” Percy asked.

“I hate to say it won’t do anything but fly. Particularly fast, maybe, but even that depends,” Harry said.

“You took the bloody commission?” Wood asked, redirecting the pair’s attention to him.

“Yes.”

“ Why? ”

“It is an awful lot of money, Oliver,” Percy said gently.

Harry didn’t like when Percy did that—spoke to Wood like he was a bit stupid. Sure, Harry did the same on occasion (because, really, Wood could be a bit stupid), but this was different. Harry didn’t have a history of being a traitor and absolute prick. Why Oliver entertained this strange, tenuous relationship with a man who hardly seemed to respect him was beyond Harry. Maybe Percy thought it made him look good—maybe it had something to do with the unresolved pining that flooded every sick little glance. 

Despite his relative disgust, Harry took the assist.

“I’m going to put it in a trust for Teddy,” he offered.

“You’ve already got a trust for Teddy,” Wood said.

“Well, then, he’ll just have to live with a bigger one.”

“Harry—”

“What happened to ‘let’s talk about work when we’re working’ hm?” Percy asked. This was logic Wood couldn’t argue with because it was his own,and Harry would be lying if he said he wasn’t grateful.

The conversation dropped, if only for the moment.

When they returned to No. 12 Grimmauld Place, Harry put Bill’s bottle of Firewhiskey into a particularly defensive kitchen cabinet (it had come with the house; Black family furniture had generally unfavorable personality traits as they were made from particularly nasty trees) and put on the kettle.

Wood, arms full with Harry’s gifts, had been silent since they left the burrow.

“Jasmine?” He asked over his shoulder as Wood slumped into the chairs of their breakfast nook.

“We have any more Earl Grey?”

“No, that’s why I offered Jasmine. We’ve also got just Black.”

“That’ll be fine.” A beat, a shuffling. Wood said something else but Harry couldn’t quite make it out.

“How’s that?” Harry didn’t bother to turn.

“We ought to be up early,” he repeated.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday. Two sugar?” Harry asked.

“And a little milk.”

The kettle whistled.

xx

The last time Harry Potter spoke to Draco Malfoy was thirteen years ago, after his mother’s trial.  

He’d found the other boy (they’d been boys, then) propped against the stone wall of a hidden ministry courtyard, of all things smoking a cigarette.

Malfoy cried during the trial. Cried in front of his mother, in front of his father, in front of the Minister and Merlin and everyone when he’d taken the stand. He’d still been pink when Harry found him, but that might have been the sun.

Harry had taken to this particular courtyard because it was hidden; overgrown with ivy and wildflowers and tall, thin grass that broke through the cobblestone walkways. It was the only part of the ministry building with life.

It had taken Malfoy almost no time to notice him—he’d jumped at the sight, Harry remembered; jumped and snowed the ash.

“Oh,” Malfoy said, and it had been a very soft noise.

“Sorry,” Harry apologized. He hadn’t known for what. “I was…” He still didn’t quite know what to say. It seemed Malfoy didn’t either. “Do you have another?”

“Of these?” Malfoy asked, waving the cigarette like a wand.

“Yeah.”

“Sure. Come here.”

Malfoy put the cigarette between his teeth and began to search the pockets of his robe, finally producing a half-crushed box patterned with pictures of rotting teeth and bleeding gums. “Smoking Kills!” it proclaimed. Harry thought of the way Fred’s hand dangled over the cot.

Malfoy passed it off to Harry, who took one, weighing the awkward, unfamiliar length of it between his fingers. Harry had never smoked before, he didn’t know why he felt compelled to now.

“Light?” Malfoy offered, pulling a muggle lighter from another pocket of his robe. Harry nodded once, and bent into the flame.

“Thanks,” Harry said, trying not to cough. Everything burned. They stood in silence for a while, staring at their respective patches of courtyard grass. Then:

“What does this do for you, Potter?”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked. The trials? The courtyard? The way Malfoy reclined against the stone wall?

“I’ll tell you what it does for me,” Malfoy continued, as if Harry had answered his question. “It makes me feel like shit.”

“Right,” Harry said, still not quite following. “Me too, I think.”

Malfoy’s eyes were still glass, but the familiar coolness he’d known from school had regained control of his mouth and brows, both painfully drawn. Malfoy had grown thin. His hair had lost its shine, and now hung loose and awkward around his face, skin pulled across cheekbones Harry had once thought graceful. An indent was starting to work itself permanent into Malfoy’s forehead. He looked old , Harry realized, and wondered if Malfoy was thinking the same about him.

“You too? Ever agreeable , aren’t we?” Malfoy began toeing at a drying patch of grass with his dress shoe. “It’s a terrible habit.”

“Being agreeable?” Harry asked incredulously. The corners of Malfoy’s mouth turned up, if only slightly.

“Smoking.”

“Oh.” And then, “My uncle used to throw aluminum balls out the window, right at the kids who smoked on the corner of our street.”

Malfoy stared.

“What?” Harry asked.

“I didn’t know you had family,” Malfoy said.

“I didn’t know you smoked like a muggle,” Harry said. “It seemed, um. Like an equal exchange. Of information.” Of vulnerability, he meant.

Malfoy nodded once. Twice. “I didn’t know you’d be testifying for my mother.”

“Me neither.”

“You gave her a fighting chance.”

“Was just repaying a favor. Don’t like owing favors. Isn’t any more than that,” Harry said, suddenly much more interested in the patterns that cracked along the wall.

“It was incredibly selfless. I sort of hate you more for it,” Malfoy said, and it was so casual Harry almost couldn’t believe what he heard.

“Sorry?”

“I sort of hate you for it,” Malfoy repeated, this time a bit louder, annunciating.

“What, you want her to go to Azkaban?” Harry asked.

“Of course not,” Malfoy said, but Harry thought he didn’t sound entirely convinced. A film was starting to coat the inside of his mouth.

And then nothing. Malfoy turned from Harry to the sky, almost at the end of his cigarette.

If Harry had been a bit older, a bit different, he might’ve found something empathetic to say. ‘I understand where you’re coming from,’ or ‘we all want to feel we can look after the people we love,’ or ‘sometimes I dream about my mother and the way her hands were grabbing ‘round me and the way she went limp.’ But Harry had been eighteen, and Harry had been pissed, so he’d spun on Malfoy, snapped, went with:

“You selfish, ungrateful git. You’ll always hate me ? For what? Letting you keep your fucking mum? I wish someone had done the bloody same for me!”

He’d tossed his cigarette to the ground, smashed it out with his heel.

xx      

Wood returned from his morning fly grass-stained and wet—with sweat or dew or rain was anyone’s guess. Harry had pulled himself out of bed at ten, only stomaching the four hours Dreamless Sleep had given him. There was oatmeal for Wood when he wanted it. Harry forced down spoon after spoon to the sound of gear and a duffle bag kicked into the closet.

 “Percy’s going to come around for supper,” he said, pulling oats down from their cabinets (unknown—they’d come with the house—walnut, too, if he had to guess). “Probably stay the night.”

Harry said nothing. Just kept shoveling oatmeal.

“You feeling alright after yesterday mate?” He asked, begrudgingly.

“Sure.”

“Sleep okay?”

“Slept. Might have a run.”

 “Sorry I was short with you last night,” Wood said. Harry paused his shoveling. “Been having a rough time of it with the New Zealand scout. Noncommittal. Keeps dangling a Cannons contract.”

Wood made a face—twisted up his nose and eyes into something sour. Harry might have told him so, if he were in a better mood.

“S’salright. I wasn’t very nice, either.”

“I don’t know why you took the commission,” he said, “but I also know it isn’t any of my business.”

“It’ll be a challenge,” Harry said, which wasn’t untrue. “I’m interested in the project. The subject is…peculiar. And don’t say that. It’s at least forty-eight percent your business. Contractually.”

Harry was typically precious about his work, but never outright secretive. At least, not with Wood. He’d taken on a flier just three months ago who’d sworn him to secrecy--magically, of course. Wood still didn’t know the particulars of the project, only that the broom was very small and very heavy and had to be dropped off in a particular Gringotts safe after hours. 

“I think I’ll go into the studio today.”

“To work on the Combes broom, yeah?”

“It’s got to be finished.”

“You can’t stay away.” Wood crossed the room to ruffle Harry’s hair. Everything was alright, then. Harry felt he could breathe a bit better. Just a bit. “Old Potter, always at work. I’ll drop in on you sometime tonight, eh? Get takeout—have a bit of a flirt with the American girl at the pub?”

“Sounds like a right time,” he said.

He wasn’t lying to Wood. Not really. He would be going to the studio—but not before he made a few stops.

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy spent much of his time doing absolutely nothing. He supposed this is how it would be until he died.

Today, “nothing” took shape in the gardens, laid out with a book he intended to read while Pansy butchered the rose bushes as practice for her bi-monthly gardening club.

“Draco,” she said after an hour of blissful silence. “You haven’t touched your copy of A Meditation on Magic in Multiple Modes since we’ve moved outdoors. In fact, you haven’t moved a muscle since I’ve been here—I’d wager you’ve been moping about all week.”

He looked over his glasses to consider her. “Are you suggesting I’m depressed?”

She grimaced, placing the shears on the ground and stood upright. Her shadow cast over him, like one of those ridiculous muggle monster movies. “I’m suggesting you’re a total bore.”

“Better to be boring than hated.”

“You sound like your mother.”

“She’s a very smart woman,” Malfoy said. “What would you suppose we do, then?”

“We could go to the pub.”

“It’s two thirty in the afternoon.”

“To lunch, then? The bookstore? Get a coffee?”

“Like muggle university students?” he frowned.

“Like normal people, Draco,” she said. “Just out to Diagon?”

“Someone will say something to us,” he said.

“Only if you go peacocking about,” she replied, waving a hand.

“A generational curse. It's in my gait. I’m a genetic peacocker.”

Pansy looked exasperated—it was her natural state. Mouth in a hard line, hand on her hip, sunglasses pushing back the microbangs of her Very Trendy pixie cut. Draco always assumed it was partially this look, her natural coolness, which landed her the editorial position at Witch Weekly . But, to a trained eye, there was concern bent in her brow. Draco sighed, dramatically.

“I suppose you might convince me,” he said, to which she immediately perked up. “Conditionally.”

“And what might the conditions be?”

“We go to that little basement curry spot in Knockturn. You pay.”

“Done,” she said, wiping what little dirt was on her hands onto the sides of her neon green overalls. “Easy. I won’t even have to change.”

Tamarind was famous within their little group for its excellent food and private location. Malfoy dressed quickly enough that Pansy didn’t make a fuss, and the two apparated into the mouth of Knockturn. 

It was midday, so the street was especially quiet—a few passers-by stared at the pair (likely attempting to place vaguely familiar faces), but otherwise they were left alone. The restaurant was, predictably, near empty—the only other occupant a man who sat alone at the dark wood bar. They were greeted warmly and shuffled to “their” table, pressed into the back corner of the already dark basement. The server, a young witch who often took their table, didn’t bother with menus. She quickly brought ‘round aluminum wrapped garlic naan and a hot, orange pumpkin curry with extra sticky rice and leaned in to ask—

“Are we drinking?”

Pansy gave Draco a flat look before replying, “I’m told it's two thirty in the afternoon.”

The server—he was fairly certain her name was Monica—rolled her eyes.

“Right, okay. Firewhiskey neat and a julip?”

Pansy rested her chin in her palms and grinned up at her. This was, apparently, as good as a “yes.” The witch was gone again, leaning over the bar.

“You’re a horrible flirt,” Draco said.

“Alright, pot.”

“Is that why you wanted to get out in public?” Draco gestured toward the server, whose foot was practically kicked up as she watched the bartender.

“You picked the place, not me,” she shrugged. When Monica returned, Pansy gestured to the bar. “Is he cute? Asking for my friend.”

Monica set the drinks down, considering. “I guess if you’re into the haunted, strung-out, day-drinking type.”

“Promising. Thank you,” she smiled, which was as good as a dismissal.

“Don’t cruise for me in the middle of the afternoon.”

“It was an innocent question.”

“She’ll say something to him. Gossip,” Draco frowned. “How’s it going with that quidditch player? You haven’t mentioned her in weeks.”

“It’s complicated,” Pansy said, clipped.

“Did she break it off, then?”

“Hardly,” Pansy said, unwilling to offer up more. They ate in relative silence, Pansy poking holes every few minutes to complain about chasing writers who haven’t met their submission deadline, idiot graphic designers formatting moving pictures the wrong way, a name blunder on Witch Weekly ’s social media content spotlight, etc. etc. These were the sorts of problems Draco didn’t have to shoulder—no employees, no boss, no one to answer to or for—sometimes, he liked to imagine how things might have sorted out differently for himself.

“I think if my parents hadn’t fucked everything up, I might’ve been a photographer,” he said absently, filling another of their pocked silences. They’d cleared dinner and were now splitting a plate of gajar halwa, passing a dessert fork between them.

“Why a photographer?” Pansy asked, “You’ve never said anything about wanting to be a photographer. In fact, I watched you burn several priceless photographs just last month.”

“Family heirlooms,” he waved the accusation away with his fork. “No one would be interested but a museum or a little library. Anyhow, I like beautiful things. Muggle cameras look cool. Don’t you think I’d be a natural?”

“Naturally obnoxious,” she said. “You would’ve had a better go of it as a writer. Standoffish, self-obsessed, chronically late.”

Before Draco could respond, another julep was placed by his elbow. He looked up to see Monica, half-shrugging. “Haunted and strung out—“ she jammed a thumb to a now empty bar, “—told me to wait until he was gone.”

Pansy looked a little smug. Draco sniffed.

“Did he leave any information?” he asked, “a message?”

The server shook her head.

“How altruistic,” he said. Pansy asked for another Firewhiskey and the check.

It was never especially smart to apparate while buzzed, and after their third drink this was how Draco and Pansy found themselves. The two ambled up and down Knockturn, intentionally popping into the more reputable establishments in case a Prophet photographer happened upon them. Pansy pulled him into a newer bookstore on the second floor of what was once his father’s preferred apothecary. As she raced off to the coffee table, art books, and new fictions, Draco stood, still a little fuzzy, considering the newsstand.

The Prophet headlined an interview with a leading expert on Ministry Relations concerning the recent rulings on taxing outreach for wizards just out of Azkaban. The glimmering photos were of familiar faces. Schoolmates and “friends” of his parents. The Quibbler offered a fluff piece on gnargle care. Witch Weekly boasted a spread Pansy had shown him the previews for only a week before: end-of-summer sportswear and fall trend predictions featuring an up-and-coming Irish witch who didn’t look unlike Ginny Weasley. He picked up a copy of Quidditch Quarterly that broke down the buzz on off-season draft pics—a hot bloke from New Zealand, a promising American, an underdog Chilean Beater. The news was paired, of course, with an interview with Oliver Wood, spotlighting his silly broom making company. Draco skimmed the opening, scoffed, and tucked the paper under his arm.

Then, of course, poking from behind the more reputable publications, The Tattler ’s monthly “Potter Watch.”

Draco checked over his shoulder for Pansy and, when there was no sign of her, quickly picked up the issue. 

Headline: “POTTER SEEN IN TALKS WITH MCGONIGALL—HOGWARDS REUNION IMMINENT FOR THE SAVIOUR?” A grainy photo accompanied what was likely complete hogwash. In it, Potter looked excellent. He’d clearly been flying, maintaining the leanness of a professional Seeker that had shocked Draco the first time he’d seen the now-famous “POTTER RETURNED?!?” photographs nearly nine months ago. There were still dark circles under his eyes, a now-permanent crease between his brows, but the man was fit, certainly. His hair was longer than the last photograph—taken, if Draco wasn’t mistaken, two months ago. He hovered a hand over the moving photo as Potter’s stiff smile with the Headmistress turned to a deep, foreboding frown, locking eyes with the camera.

“How’s our boy, then?” Pansy, from nowhere, leered over him. Draco jumped, jamming her chin into his shoulder—she cursed, of course, whacking him in the arm with a hardback before snatching the paper away. “You know I never quite understood the obsession in school, but this is something to work with. If only he’d answer my owls, ugh. Let’s see, blah blah, ‘One report suggests the Headmistress is attempting to recruit the Saviour of the Wizarding World back into the classroom—teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, of course.’ Boring, predictable, shitty journalism, who’s written this? William Whitely? Must jot that down so I don’t hire him.”

Pansy offered the paper back. Draco pointed to the stand.

“Oh, don’t get shy just because I’m here. Let me buy it for your stash, then,” and she was dragging Draco and his Quidditch Quarterly to the front counter.

The bored wizard at the front counter perked-up when they approached, complimenting Pansy on her choices and spreading a hand over The Tattler as he folded it.

“Do you think they’ll really have him back?” he asked. “I’ve got my money on Auror training, you know. The faux bleeding-heart violent types always become cops.”

“I’ve heard he quit training right before that strange disappearance. Much more likely for him to seek a profession in isolation. Am I getting that right, love?” she turned to smile sugar-sweet at Draco. He grunted.

“Oh, that isn’t such a bad thought,” the wizard said, changing her twenty Galleons and returning a handful of sickles. Draco slid his own paper across the counter. “Ah, the Hard Wood special. Love saying that. I’ve a friend of a friend who knows a Quarterly reporter who says the editor had to pull, like, six personal strings to even swing an interview about the brooms. All he wants to talk about are the Bats.”

“They look awful,” Draco said, and the wizard nodded.

“Good time to be a Kestrals fan, eh?”

Pansy was good enough to apparate him home before flitting off. Despite his protests, she left the issue of The Tattler on the sitting room’s coffee table. Draco called for Astoria, but she was, predictably, out. The Manor was silent. He gathered the papers and a small pile of unopened letters, then climbed the main stair toward his study.

Draco liked his study best of any room in the house. It had once served as a linen closet beside his bedroom. He’d made the architectural alterations himself, chosen the furniture, the books that lined the shelves: magical theory, old tomes and modern potions instructionals, an old book of foraging that Pansy had gifted him for his twenty-seventh birthday, a few children’s books that reminded him of easier times. His favorite chair was set across from the stone fireplace, which he lit before settling down to read his letters.

Mother, of course, had written. She was in Switzerland still. She was happy enough. When would he and Astoria get around to having children? She loved the flowers he’d sent.

A letter from Blaise. He was still in Hungary. He was happy enough. He met a bloke who wanted to do it flying. Work would keep him there for another month at least. He missed Draco (platonically).

A thank-you letter from the Young Witches and Wizards for Magical Literacy for his donation, and another invitation to come by and view their facilities. 

Finally—a blank envelope. Dark green, black seal. Draco sat up a bit straighter. Turned the letter over in his hand. Dug his wand from his pocket to cast a few spells of precaution. No hidden message, no discernable hexes. Odd. 

Before Draco had known better than to restrict delivery, he’d been bombarded with a blizzard of angry mail. Howlers and letters that contained childish explosions and even more substantial curses that he himself couldn’t break. He’d once spent a week in St. Mungo’s over an unmarked letter. That was when he’d had to file a mail complaint with the ministry (a nightmare, torture in itself) to whom he provided and upkept a strict list of persons who were suitable for contact. Charitable organizations, his mother, Pansy, Blaise, Theo; that was all. There hadn’t been a slip in five or six years. 

Draco brought the letter closer to inspect the seal. A hokey broom and snitch, which told him very little. Carefully, he pushed the tip of his wand under the seal.

He braced himself for an impact that didn’t come. Instead, he shook out a flat card.

Dear Mr. Malfoy,

After careful consideration, it has been determined you meet the necessary requirements to receive a custom flying broom. Clients of Hard Wood&co. are persons of exemplary character who possess a passion for recreational flying and contribute substantially to their community. Your broom will be funded by the anonymous party who submitted your screening application and will come at no personal cost.

Please respond to this letter in a timely manner to schedule an initial in-person consultation.

Best,

James Connors, Associate

Draco stared at the letter for a very long time. He knew of Oliver Wood’s pet project by reputation. Custom brooms made with the same stakes and quality as a wand—a gimmick, Draco assumed, until Marta Jansen, who was not especially known for her quick or aerobic flying, was spotted in pre-season training lapping several semi-prominent professional fliers. 

The league was leaning in favor of banning “non-industry standard” brooms (whatever that meant), but it was so scrambled up in Magical Games bureaucracy that any sort of impactful regulation looked unlikely. What Draco found strange was that the flier gifted the broom had not been one of Wood’s Ballycastle Bats, who certainly needed whatever extra “help” they could get.

Draco turned the letter over in his hands a few more times, still not convinced it wasn’t an elaborate scam. He set his papers to the side in favor of the Quidditch Quarterly issue, folding it open to the interview. He’d read Oliver Wood’s interviews before, and much of what he found in the Q was standard fare—questions about his career-ending injury, musings on alternate forms of offensive coaching that would likely prove ineffective in a snitch-forward play style, a newer anecdote about his time spent training with fliers in the Americas, a question about the “Golden Trio” that was easily deflected. Draco skimmed through this until Wood finally offered something concrete about the brooms.

QQ: You do all of this and still find time to make these extraordinary brooms. How?

Wood: I don’t find the time, I’ve got to make it! Coaching is a real gift, something I dreamed of since I was a little kid. But, y’know, the brooms started all of this in a way. They make me more than I make them. People compare it a lot to wand making, and I think, if you’ve never had a custom broom, that’s the closest kind of comparison. We source the wood from all over the world, the coils are made either in-house or by a few artisans who’re friends of the company, all of that sort of pretentious shit. We don’t just make a high quality broom, we spend time with the recipient—learn what they ultimately want out of one of our brooms that they don’t get from the so-called “industry standard” mass-market fare.

 I should stop, eh? Don’t want this to sound too much like an advertisement (laughter).

QQ: I hear you’re backed up with orders already!

Wood: Well, yes and no. Because it’s a pretty small team and the brooms take so long to make, we go through a regimented vetting process—someone has to essentially “nominate” you for a broom. Say something about you as a person, what you contribute to your community, why you fly, those sorts of things. Then, we hold an in-person screening with the nominator, a follow-up with the recipient. It’s a whole lot of talking about brooms before the saw hits the wood, so to speak.

QQ: There’s been a lot of talk about how these brooms might change the way the game works, is this something you could speak to?

Wood: Talk is talk. As you know we’ve only made six brooms for league fliers—three of whom are retired, (for our uninitiated readers, Coach Wood is referencing Sigmarsson, Bryne, and Grigoryan) one of whom is head coach for one of our biggest competitors ( Of course, Viktor Krum ). That was early in the game, before we’d found any footing. Most of those players we had to reach out to, you understand. Jansen’s broom was made when she was still playing non-league.

QQ: I saw the one you made for Viktor Krum. That’s a broom that I think most of our readers are familiar with (see our spread on Krum’s modern legacy in the Spring issue! ). Could you walk us through the process behind that specific piece?

Wood: ‘Piece’ is funny phrasing—like it’s art or something. The broom is more like a tool, right? Krum is a seeker, but taller than your standard guy. He’s a genius, of course, so he flies well on your Firebolts or Thunderstrikes or Nimbuses, but by extending the handle and giving him a more flexible base wood he’s able to maximize what he’s got naturally. Silver is a softer metal, which gives even more flexibility between the head and handle. Y’see? He gets less crowded on the broom, more movement in the air so he can do his fancy flips and spins. Mostly, it’s logic.

QQ: So if the brooms are created for maximum sport-flying potential—

Wood: To put it very simply.

QQ: —then why focus on non-professional clientele?

Wood: Because Quidditch is more than the advancement of our regulated pro Euro-league. I’m not looking to push the agenda of a faster, snitch-oriented game. I’m making brooms for people who love to fly recreationally. The first qualification is passion, the second is heart. Skill is circumstantial.

QQ: Finally—and I can’t help but ask this, you know—

Wood: Uh-huh.

QQ: You’ve been frequently spotted with Harry Potter since his recent public resurface. Are you attempting to recruit a new seeker for the Ballycastle Bats? Will we see Mr. Potter out on the pitch in a signature Hard Wood broom?

Wood: No comment.

 

Draco read the interview twice through before folding the paper onto the side table. Passion. Heart. Laughable, when put in context of a rich layabout with ambition for little except drinking, sulking, and light stalking. Perhaps whomever had submitted his name had emphasized his sizable charitable donations—perhaps Pansy was so desperate for him to take up a hobby she’d made up an elaborate lie—perhaps whoever handled screening had been a secret sympathizer with his father. Perhaps none of it mattered.

Draco moved to the desk, flipped the letter to the other side, and wrote:

Mr. Connors,

While I appreciate the honor, your praise is singularly misplaced. My consideration is a mistake. I have not flown in years and I possess little desire to resume.

Please do not contact this address again.

Sincerely,

D.L. Malfoy

 

A dark green envelope, a golden seal. It was a quick trip up to the Manor’s owlry, where he fished a sizable pellet treat out for the Great Horned he’d always been partial to. She gnawed as he tied the letter to her leg and cooed when he rubbed a little circle on the back of her skull. The letter would deliver quickly, and that would be that.

Draco returned to his study, considered cracking the Magical Methods book he’d been intending to start all week, instead opened the bottom drawer where he kept relevant archival papers. He lifted to the bottom of the stack—past the recent photographs of Potter, past the unconfirmed sightings of the saviour during his disappearance, past the “ POTTER QUITS AURORS ” headline and “ DOES THE SAVIOUR HAVE A DREAMLESS SLEEP PROBLEM? ” in the fourth edition of The Prophet he ever kept. From the other drawer of his desk, Draco extracted an aged, expensive bottle of muggle Bourbon.

Draco remembered buying this paper, the day after his mother’s trial. He’d been eighteen then, and very likely to spend at least a decade in Azkaban with his father. He’d broken probation, sneaking through the tunnels then-unfound by the Ministry to kick around Diagon Alley, chugging an unmarked polyjuice found in his father’s study for some sense of anonymity. 

The newsstand had been positioned right in front of Flourish & Blotts. There was no special interview in the Q , no fashion spread in Witch Weekly, no Quibbler at all. His own thin, pale, boyish face stared down at him—collaged over a photograph of Potter taking the stand, his mother’s chilled, statuesque face.

7.31.98

A SAVIOUR FOR ALL?

Potter shocks with generous testimony amidst high-profile Malfoy trials. 

Thirteen years and one day, on the dot. Draco bought the paper with the intention of burning it—or, at least, making Potter’s face into rolling paper. Instead, he’d stuck it under his mattress with hoarded cartons of muggle cigarettes and bags of cherry sweets. 

Draco let the paper fall, revealing the next headline. 

8.3.98

POTTER TO TESTIFY AS CHARACTER WITNESS 

Amidst the on-going Great Wizarding War trails, another quake may rattle the foundation of our fragile new world. Late last night, Harry Potter (who needs no introduction to our readers) was seen exiting the Ministry building from a side entrance. When asked about his impromptu midnight presence, the Saviour of the Wizarding World claimed to be “submitting [himself] as a character witness” for an upcoming trial. This would be the second time Mr. Potter has taken the stand for the defense this summer, having previously interrupted the trial of Narcissa Malfoy with previously unknown information. 

When prompted to name the witch or wizard he would stand in defense of, Mr. Potter would offer no comment. Political specialists claim the Saviour is most likely submitting himself in favor of Draco Malfoy, schoolmate and marked Death Eater, whose trial is scheduled for the beginning of next week. 

Both Harry Potter and the Minister’s Office have declined further comment. 

Potter never testified at Draco’s trial because, in the end, there hadn’t been one. Soon after his mother was absolved, his own charges were silently and unceremoniously dropped. He was issued a fine of one thousand Galleons which was taken from the Manor’s estate. There were no summons from the Minister, no informal hearing. Just…release. 

This was the second time Draco had seen his mother cry. Her composed, but obviously exhausted face shone with tears. 

“It’s over,” she said. Draco only moved closer to the table. Picked up his wand only to immediately put it back down. Narcissa stood.

“It’s over,” she said again. He picked up his wand. Set it down again. 

“Draco, darling, he’s gone,” one last time, her voice cracking. “It’s over.”

This was not the first time Draco cried in front of his mother as an adult—far from it—but it was certainly the loudest.

Draco wrote three letters to Potter. Two sat, still sealed, in the drawer, shuffled between his collection of newspapers—one white envelope, one blue. He didn’t remember the particulars of their contents. He’d been furious when he’d written one, smashed and simpering when he’d written the other. 

The third letter was brief. Potter’s response was perhaps even briefer. Draco removed this letter from the drawer, poured more bourbon in his now empty glass, and opened it as he did every year.

Malfoy, 

I only told Kingsley the truth of what I would say. It was his decision to drop the charges. Truthfully, I would have preferred you’d been made to say your piece. 

Anyhow, we’re square. 

H.P. 

p.s., I have no intention of standing up for Lucius Malfoy. I’d like him to rot in Azkaban, too. 

 

Draco read the letter over before putting it back in the drawer. He took himself and his bourbon back to the chair in front of the fireplace. Staring into the crackling flames, he allowed his mind to wander into dangerous hypotheticals. 

There were a few he turned over in his head, eroded and polished until they pebbled. Tonight, he lets himself return to the one where he writes Potter a letter—asks to go for tea—apologizes for his unkindness. He let himself think of easy conversation, easier acceptance—of the way Potter's eyes would drift past him as he silently worked out Draco’s intentions. He thought of Potter looking at him, really, as he’d done only once before in the courtyard. He let himself think of what might happen beyond—cautious friendship, lending books, making dinner, comfortable silences. 

Draco, a little beyond buzzed, eased himself into a fantasy of forgiveness. 

In these reveries, he liked to imagine Potter as he’d seen him five years ago—the day before he disappeared. 

       xx

London was misting. He’d been out to buy his first muggle trench coat, the sort with the beige tartan lining he’d seen in the out-of-season fashion magazines Pansy would leave to die in his library. She would likely be upset that he hadn’t consulted her over such an “important” purchase, but Draco preferred to travel into the muggle world alone. He felt less obvious this way; less foreign . 

He stood half in the storefront window, running his hands over the crisp tan and black coats, rubbing the thick fabric between his fingers. The sales associate, an older, bird-like French woman who wore her black hair in a long, pristine ponytail, hung close to him. The hovering felt similar to the Aurors that would follow him and Mother down the street the first two years after the trials. Unsubtle. 

Draco held his right forearm against the sleeve. It was what he was after, he supposed, but something felt off. 

“Do you think the tan will wash me out?” he’d asked her, not bothering to look over his shoulder. 

“I think monsieur would look fabulous in anything he wore,” she replied.

“Ever the salesmen, aren’t we?” he said, letting the sleeve drop. He picked the coat off the rack, turning to her. “ Ne me cache rien; je compte sur toi pour être honn ê te avec moi. ”

She smiled. It was very small, a pinch upward at the corners of her thin mouth. Draco liked getting these reactions out of strangers—casual pleasure, seeing and being seen. 

“Your accent is almost very good, you must have studied for a very long time,” she said. 

“Almost?” he asked, only a little offended. 

“You hold the words in your mouth as a performance.” She took the coat from him, replaced it on the rack. “It will make you look ill, this color. The black will be too harsh. Come.” 

He followed her toward the back of the store, where she pulled an olive green coat from the rack. 

“Try it,” she said, pointing to the little stage surrounded by mirrors in the back of the store. Draco obliged, sliding the trench over his shoulders carefully before stepping up to look at himself. It reminded him distinctly of when he was a young man, Madam Malkin fussing over how tall he’d gotten, how she’d have to pin up adult robes for this year. 

“This is much better,” he conceded. “And I imagine two hundred euros more.”

“It is quality,” she said. “And in this weather, monsieur must leave with a suitable coat—even if he entered dry from the street.” 

She raised a brow at him. Draco smiled, removed the trench. Purchased it.

He wore it out of the store, pausing only to transfer his carton of cigarettes from the pocket of his trousers to the pocket of his jacket, removing one to light and smoke as he walked. 

Draco liked London, enjoyed being a stranger to the middle-aged men and women in business suits who rushed past him. He liked standing apart from the bus stop, watching as a father lifted his toddling child in a bright yellow raincoat onto his shoulders. He liked nodding to those who made eye contact with him, pausing to help a woman gather produce which fell from the bottom of her bag on the street, ducking into the coffee shop where a university student’s eyes lit up with familiarity at the sight of him, ordering a hot chai with a touch too much milk. 

It was on this walk, with his new coat and new cigarette and half-finished latte, when Draco saw him. He’d wandered into an unfamiliar, quiet neighborhood, where the houses stood tall and tight like soldiers. He pet an old man’s little dog, paused to wonder at a bush carved into the shape of a rabbit, and stopped again to watch a bird hop along a suburban tree branch. He’d made it to a street called Grimmauld when he’d looked across the way. 

And Harry Potter was just…there. Sitting on the stoop of one of those dingy townhouses, looking up toward the sky, visibly damp with mist. He’d been wearing a green flannel over a white t-shirt, the neck loose and stretched out, glasses folded on the stoop beside him. Cigarette butts littered the stair around his bare feet. Beside him, a folded empty box. 

As if he sensed him, Potter pushed back his hair. Met his eyes.

Draco expected to be charged. Accused of invading Potter’s privacy, spat at, shouted at, hexed or punched; any sort of violence may have been  warranted. Maybe it had been his look of shock that stayed Potter’s wand, maybe it had been their public muggle venue, or maybe it was because Potter looked like a shell of himself. His eyes were red, his arms were thin, a five o’clock shadow pricked out of his jaw. 

And so, he didn’t charge Draco. He didn’t even stand. Potter simply stared, and Draco stared back. For several minutes, they were stone.

It was Draco who moved first, who pulled his hands from his pockets, showing they were empty. Who raised one in a silent “hello.” Potter stared at him, hazy, as if Draco might have been an apparition. Draco looked up and down the street. He dug a hand back into his pocket. Potter tensed. Draco shook his head, pulled out his own carton of cigarettes to show. Potter tilted his head. Draco moved to the stone fence which surrounded the house he stood by. Set the carton down. 

They stared at one another for a moment longer, then Draco dipped his head in a small bow, put his hands back in his pockets, and continued down the street. 

Three days later, The Prophet reported Potter missing.

Chapter Text

 When Harry left it had been for good.

The plan was to abandon magic altogether—lock his things in an unbreakable chest, travel as far as the money he kept inside a World Encyclopedia could take him, and throw away the key. Maybe he’d get a job in a bookstore, maybe he’d bag groceries, maybe he’d lock himself in a very small room and hide under the floorboards. Maybe there was nothing left to do at all.

The first part was easy—wand, broom, letters from Remus and Sirius, from Hagrid, from his parents, unopened journals Andromeda had given him after the war, moving pictures that inspired headaches, hell, even a half-eaten chocolate frog found twitching in his pocket was tossed into the mix—his entire life crammed into a metal footlocker. He stood above it for a long time, then walked barefoot from Grimmauld place to the bus stop. From the bus stop, to the airport (where he was made to purchase flip-flops from a tacky giftshop). 

He’d taken the first international flight that left the London City Airport. Turns out, the furthest Harry could go was North Carolina, a place which he had never heard of but spent 500 euros and 11 hours getting to. He stepped off the plane, and sat on the first bus he could, crammed between sunny-faced Americans clutching plastic bags printed with oversaturated images of Big Ben and telephone booths. A lady at the next visitor's counter helped him purchase a train ticket. Harry headed east toward the coast, paid for a week in a dingy, empty motel, where he watched a couple dance under a set of half-dead fairy lights in the cigarette littered courtyard. 

Harry took the footlocker to the beach in the dead of night. Buried it on the third of June, unearthed it on the fourth, and buried it again on the fifth, unearthed on the sixth. He spent nights in the motel room watching muggle game shows, smoking in bed, falling asleep with the hope his sheets might catch fire and fix things for him. On the seventh, he buried the footlocker again. This time, he left it. 

He stayed on the beach that night. Watched the sun rise over the sparkling blue water—the gulls descend to pick at tourist litter. When people began to trickle out from the hotels, he walked up the coast, kicking abandoned Bud Light cans, pocketing seashells, wrapping a bit of fishing wire around his finger til it purpled, til it bled. 

When it came time to toss the key into the Atlantic, though, he’d teased himself—attached the key to fishing wire, walked waist deep into water, and let it dangle above the waves. Walked further, up to his chest, let it dangle. Walked up to his neck and held the key in his hand and the fishing wire in his teeth.

He meant to drop the key.

Harry opened his mouth and let the salt sit in his esophagus.

He meant to drop the key.

Harry opened his mouth and let the saltwater sit in his esophagus and wondered why he wasn’t trying to spit it back out.

He meant to drop the key. Instead, he returned to his motel and watched the shower until it ran cold. He left the motel, then returned again. Packed up his bag (clothes, what muggle money he had left, seashells) and then went back to stand in the ocean: isolated from the populated spots in a quiet cove, Harry thought it might be best to leave this way. Bloated with salt.

That was when, against all fucking odds, a golden snitch flew past the bridge of his nose.  

The man was inordinately tall and lanky. All bones and knotted, wind-swept seasalt blonde hair. The first time Harry saw him was then, hovering feet above him and a distance away, perched low on the thin, black handle of a broom. A tomcat studying a mouse. 

“This is a private beach,” he said, calm. Cold. “You ain’t supposed to be here.”

The snitch danced around the man, who outstretched a lazy hand to snatch it from the air. 

“I—shit, bloody hell—”

Harry, soaking wet and half submerged, and who most of all could not swim, stumbled back a few paces, and felt sand slip from beneath his feet. The waves lapped around him. 

“You alright, there?” the man had dipped closer to the water—closer to Harry, who was frantically attempting to pull himself back above sea-level. He heard a splash in the ocean beside him, a tug on his arm toward shallower water, a hard slap on his back. “Say man if you were tryin’ to drown yourself you might’ve done that in the Southern Shores. We don’t need that kinda mess down here.”

In response, Harry coughed up what water made its way into his stomach, turning away from the stranger to retch. 

Here, he could see the man much better—the knots at the base of his mulleted hair, the freckles that sprayed across his nose, the pock marks of old acne scars. His eyes were bright, green, suspicious. A long, pale scar cut along his jaw, and when he opened his mouth Harry could see the flash of a snaggletooth. 

“Do you know what kinda water you’re in? This is gator territory. Jesus—Kauê! Kauê! We’ve got another fuckin idiot tryin’ to swim in the gator refuge!”

“Did he see you on your broom?” a voice called back. Harry rubbed salt from his eyes, cursed. Everything burned.

“Sure did. Will have ta get ol’ Margie to cook up a half-decent obliterate . Can’t trust me n’ you to do it after last time. Poor fella tried to fill up his Toyota with diesel.”

“No, no,” Harry pushed away from the man’s grasp, but his hand clutched harder into his shirt. “I’m—I’m a wizard.”

“Like hell you are,” the man snorted, pushing Harry further and further up to the beach. Salt rubbed from his eyes, he could see him better up close. Freckled, tan, beautiful wide hazel eyes. He straightened Harry on the wet sand, laid his palm flat on his chest. “Steady, now. Take a few deep breaths and think real hard about what you’re gonna say next.” 

To his credit, it didn’t take very long for the blonde man, who’d introduced himself as “Skipper” to believe him. A few wandless spells, an admittedly weak explanation about being around for vacation, taking a longer walk than he’d intended, getting too warm. It was obvious neither man bought his story. Regardless, he was quickly hauled to a small house. 

They flew what Harry thought to be tens of kilometers up the shoreline, further and further into the forest. Perched uncomfortably close to Skipper on the back of his much longer broom, Harry kept his eyes on the pattern of trees, willing himself to remember a path to return, just in case. They landed easily in a small, grassy clearing and walked a short distance down a rocky path. Harry kept up alright, and Skipper called out particularly nasty rocks. 

From the outside, the house looked more like a shack. Wood paneling weathered with salt and wind, a deck that housed a worn rattan outdoor couch and a rocking chair. Along the side, Harry could see a beaten green hose unscrewed from its spigot. Kauê, who was mostly silent, kicked off his shoes and walked barefoot into the grass. Water blasted from the mouth of the spigot, which he used to rinse off his feet and clean his water shoes. Skipper leaned against the side of the house, gesturing for Harry to do the same. 

“We don’t like bringin’ the sand inside,” he said. “Our old lady throws a fit.”

Once clean, Harry was instructed to leave his shoes to dry in the already substantial line by the front door. Beside them, a smattering of fishing poles, rollerblades, skateboards, and a single pair of ski poles leaned against the siding. Some looked as if they’d just been put there, others were umbillicalled to the house with intricate spider webs.

“Kauê, let Margie know we’ve got an extra for dinner, yeah?” Skipper grinned. The other man gave Harry one last side-eye before nodding, and rounding the back of the beach house. 

“If you stick around he’ll warm up,” Skipper said, before propping open the screen door and gesturing for Harry to go in. Like Hermione’s little beaded handbag, the inside of the house was much larger than the outside. He had only a moment to take in the entryway, whose walls were packed with moving pictures, framed artwork, and tacked-up posters. Skipper paused only once to pull a green leatherbound book from a packed bookshelf—on the cover in gold leaf, Esteemed Guests . 

“You’ll want to put your name in the next free spot,” Skipper said, picking a ballpoint pen from a lumpy, hand-made ceramic mug in the melted shape of a cow. “I’ll even let you use the Blue Devils pen.”

Harry, who’d decided back on the beach it was best to go with the flow until he found some point of escape, flipped through at least a hundred pages of scribbled names, dates, and points of origin. Witches and wizards from Hong Kong, Singapore, White Horse, Odesa—he paused when he saw the other man’s name:

Kauê Cunha  /   Vitoria, Brazil   /   Check in: Nov. 23, 1999 Check out: 

Harry filed the information away, continued to flip until he found a blank page, far in the back. Under Sarah Coleman of Omaha Nebraska, Harry attempted to write James Connors, but the pen skipped terribly and the name immediately vanished. Skipper, who’d been looking over his shoulder, said, 

“Funny little thing about this book, won’t let you cook up an alias.” They made eye contact for a moment, and he must’ve seen something sour or frightened in Harry’s expression. “Look man, we’re not tryin’ to get in your personal business. Lots of people come here who have plenty they don’t wanna talk about, y’know, shit they’re running from. I personally don’t give a fuck who you are, but I do give a fuck that you’re honest.”

Harry stared down at the page. Sighed sharply through his nose. Skipper rolled his eyes, took the book from him. Flipped all the way back to the first page, first entry. 

Travis Wilson   /   Buncomb, North Carolina   /   Check in: March 3, 1991 Check Out: n/a

“See? There ya are. Government name, place of birth, what have you. I wouldn’t ask you to do something I haven’t done myself,” Skipper tapped the book. 

Harry, against his better judgement, took the guest book back. Wrote his name. 

Harry Potter   /   London, United Kingdom  /   Check in: June 10, 2006 Check out:

“You have something you’d rather go by?” Skipper asked, reshelving the book. “Middle name?”

“James,” Harry said, quietly. 

“Alright then, James. Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

Skipper led Harry through the veritable maze—an open living room, stuffed full of empty couches and even more crowded bookshelves, through a kitchen, two bathrooms, and a “greenhouse” he was free to use as long as he took care of it and kept outdoor business outdoors (this he said with a particular knowing look as he tapped the green glass door). 

He finally showed Harry into a room that housed two full beds, split in half in terms of mess and pure stuff . The right side was kept neat—the bed made, fresh laundry folded in a basket but not yet put away. A book lay on the bedside table, John Williams’ Stoner . Three framed, still photographs hung on the otherwise bare wall: a young boy sitting on the knee of a mustached man in oil-stained coveralls; the same boy, older, standing stone-faced next to a smiling little girl; the third photograph was of who he knew to be Kauê, posed in front of a flat-style boat between Skipper and a girl with two long blonde braids.  

The left side of the room was nearly opposite—sheets pulled back and tangled at the foot of the bed, stickers plastered up the stem of a lamp with a stained glass shade formed into the shape of a flower. The lamp, which hadn’t been turned off, illuminated a line of collected seaglass as well as a stack of old looking music magazines. Above the bed, a bluegrass festival poster silhouetted a cello player behind a noose.

Skipper opened his drawers and began rummaging through them, haphazardly pulling out a few t-shirts and a pair of denim shorts. He tossed them on the bed. 

“If you like, here’s clothes—bathroom’s that way, you might wanna get clean before dinner,” he pointed a gun-style finger toward a door in the back of the room.

Harry gathered the clothes in his hands, held up the shorts warily. He thought of the curse scars that patterned his legs, the bruises that yellowed his torso. 

“Uh, you don’t have any trousers do you?” he asked, sheepish. Skipper wrinkled his nose up. 

“In this heat? Kid, it’s only gonna get muggier.” He studied Harry for a moment, taking in his soaking wet jeans. “I think I’ve got a pair of cargos, gimme a sec.”

It had been a very long time since Harry felt clean. The motel shower would cut out hot water at the five minute mark, and he’d only bothered to use it twice since arriving. He used Skipper’s bar soap, his cheap shampoo (which would almost certainly frizz up Harry’s curls) and sat on the toilet seat as he pat himself dry. He considered apparating, but was sure the distance between the beach and the cabin would be too far. If he could find one of the brooms, he might have taken off on his own—he might’ve just run into the woods. He thought about Skipper, squatting over the bottom drawer of the dresser to find him a pair of trousers, of his lopsided smile, his grip on the broom’s handle. 

Other than the broom and the house, the only evidence Harry found that Skipper even was a wizard were the contents of a small wooden shelf mounted above Skipper’s dusty workstation. It held familiar titles: The Helpful Herbologist , Advanced Care of Magical Creatures , and, to Harry’s surprise, a rather thick volume titled Wizarding Wars and Pureblood Profiteers: Who Keeps Us At Arms? 

He pulled it from the shelf, coughing at the cloud of dust which arose. Harry skimmed the contents. Though the edition was too early to include the Battle of Hogwarts, The Great Wizarding War was listed toward the bottom of the list. Curious, Harry flipped back to the index. Dumbledore’s name was listed ten times, Sirius’ five (though he shuddered to think what might’ve been written), and “The Boy Who Lived” only once. A 7-11 receipt was used as a bookmark within the “Ancient Incidents” chapter, and the book was covered in an intense amount of dust. Harry replaced the volume. 

Maybe it would be alright if he just stayed for dinner. 

    xx

There were lots of things Harry liked about his woodworking studio. He liked the large, west-facing windows and the orange light that shone through in early evening. He liked the ever-present hum of muggle electricity; summer’s bumping fan and winter’s rattling heater. He liked the stone fence that circled in the garden, and the flowers that pressed their faces in to look at him. He liked the isolation, his rolling green hills and the dew that blanketed the grass, the smell of earth—all ideal for flying. 

The building itself was only fitted with two rooms—a large, open studio space and the attached bathroom. The majority of the cottage was cut into a superb woodworking space, the remaining third contained meager kitchen offerings; a pantry, a cabinet and small table set Harry made himself (his first non-broom projects), a noisy little white refrigerator stacked with magnets which pinned letters and semi-important papers, a coffee pot, a stove, a microwave. Overlooking the floor was a cramped loft which had space only for a lumpy mattress (used only in deadline-associated emergencies) and stack of books. 

The place had originally belonged to an older muggle woman who’d been a fairly prolific quilter. Harry purchased it from a tearful granddaughter who’d grown up around the pastures, but couldn’t afford to keep the place on an administrative salary. Harry liked her a great deal. They agreed twice a year she’d bring her own little girl and husband from Wrocław , and Harry would let them sleep in the loft and run about in the fields. The first had been only a month after he’d moved in, the next would be near Christmas. 

Despite all this, maybe what Harry liked most of all about his little stone cottage was being generally left alone—especially by the wizarding world. The nearest town was Dromahair, where Harry had only run into one older Irish wizard who didn’t give a “witch’s tit” who he was, and this suited Harry just fine. 

The broom wedged onto his work table wasn’t particularly special. Maple, 152cm, Tampico fiber brush (flagged), iron coil handmade by a metalworking associate from Brazil. He’d spent his evening finding the handle, sanding and turning and cutting until his hands were splintered. Harry stared at the half dug-out block of wood from across the room, elbows pressed into a stack of unread letters.

This was when there was a loud rapping at his window—the beak of a beautiful Great Horned owl. Harry stood, pinched the soft between his eyes and nose before putting his glasses back on, and let her in. Tied to her foot was the letter he’d expected. The owl watched him as he opened and closed several drawers before finding her a treat.

“Don’t go away just yet,” he said, to which she cooed. Harry slit the letter open with a long bent gouge, confused when he was greeted with his own handwriting. He flipped the letter to the back and grimaced.

“Of course he would be difficult about it,” he said, mostly to the owl. “At least he’s saving paper. Hold on girl, let me dash out something to send back.”

Harry found a quill easily, but his small writing desk provided dried up pots of ink. It made sense; correspondence to the workshop was rare and oftentimes especially casual. Wood had insisted on moving communications operations to the office once they’d opened it—“ Organization , Harry, we need organization and this place is severely lacking.”

His only good writing utensil was a fat pencil he used to create initial shapes in blocks of wood. It wasn’t ideal, but many things in Harry’s life weren’t. For paper, he took a sheet from the long, magnetized “To Do List” pad that held up coupons for the pizza place in town.

Dear Mr. Malfoy

Our office does not

make mistakes—how’s

this coming Wednesday?

Must be in-person, no floo.

Best,

J.C., Ass.

He tied the note to the very patient owl’s leg, fed her another treat, and shooed her from the window. For forty-five minutes, Harry attempted to focus back on the Combes broom. He was freed from stagnation when there was another loud rapping at the window.

Mr. J.C. Ass,

Has your office run out of suitable stationery?

I am unsure how you were able to reach me at this address in the first place, as I have a very   strict mailing list kept with the Ministry. I will be sure to contact them and file your name under “Absolutely Never”.

Wednesday is terrible for me. Meetings.

Regards,

D. Malfoy

The handwriting was much looser than before—still flowery in its presentation, but “L.” of the signature had been crudely scribbled out. In his old age, it seemed Malfoy had become cantankerous. In the past, there had been hesitant recipients. Harry could relate, of course, to an overly-aggressive “leave me be” response. To the wary or the frequently used, the letter didn’t sound unlike a scam. He and Wood often had success simply showing up, explaining themselves, abandoning the letter writing. But the thought of Malfoy angrily scribbling back amused Harry, who, rather than flipping the stationary over, ripped another long sheet from the fridge.

Mr. Malfoy,

My only other availability

is tomorrow. Will

come ‘round for tea at ten.

Best,

J.C. Ass., Wood&co.

Another treat for the owl, and she was off again.

This time, Malfoy did not respond. Just as well, he supposed. Harry pulled another sheet of paper to send off asking Hermione if she’d still like to grab lunch. He would post this in the morning from the office owl. Finally, Harry sent off a patronus telling Wood he was terribly behind and ought not go out for drinks.  Of course, two hours later and well into the night, the man half-tumbled through the door anyhow. 

He waved his hands and shouted, which Harry could hardly hear over the whirr of the bandsaw. 

“Hold it, Wood!” he said, pulling away to flip the switch off . “What’s that, now?”

“I said, I’ve just about had it with this great potential New Zealand fucker—wants to be treated like a bloody grand damme, little cunt. Finish what you’re on. I wanna get pissed.” 

Harry looked back to the block of maple. Where the cut may have seemed even, there was a slight divot into where he’d marked the edge. Likely the result of his mind wandering toward the window. He cringed, slightly, at his own wasteful mistake, and pulled the saw up. 

“We can go now. I’ve mangled it,” he said. Wood frowned. 

“Is it cause I was too loud? I’m sorry mate, I know this is a more ‘sensitive sound environment’ that’s what ya said, right? It’s only this little prick—and I hate going over to Luna and letting her see me in a state like—”

“No, no,” Harry cut him off, shook his head, wiped his hands against his apron. “Not you. My mind’s been wandering today. I think I could use a pint.”

“New broom? Old broom? Broom at all?” he asked, wandering over to the refrigerator to idly rearrange magnets and sort through papers. He moved to the table, picked up a stack of unopened letters. “You’ll have to open these yourself eventually. I can’t keep doing it for you.”

“Eventually,” Harry parroted, folding his apron onto the back of a chair and setting his glasses on a nearby workbench. “I just feel a bit spacey today, that’s all. Nostalgic.”

Harry hoped this would settle Wood. It did not. 

“When did you eat last?”

“Breakfast.”

“Ah, fuck off. This morning?” Wood turned around completely, now, his middle finger stuck through a plastic letter A. “That oatmeal? Nothing else?”

Harry didn’t answer. Instead, he turned away from Wood to look at the mangled broom. 

“Some chips. There was a banana on the counter that was going bad. D’you think I ought to change the coil from iron to bronze?” 

“I mean a meal,” Wood said. “Are we talking about the Combes broom?”

“I’m worried the iron will clash with such a light color. And I don’t want to draw too much attention away from the grain—the tester sanded down quite nicely.”

“Could you source a nice enough bronze coil in time?” Wood asked, moving from the kitchen to inspect the broom-to-be.

“Shouldn’t be difficult. Send a letter or two.”

“Then I’d say yeah. I see what you mean with the…” he fanned his hand out. “Colors thing. Fuck the pub, I’ll going to call into town for takeout, want anything specific?”

“I’m not hungry,” Harry waved him off again. “I think I’ll give it a warm stain, then.”

“A warm stain would be great.” Wood said. “Here, coupons on the fridge for pizza—this place have your muggle card on file?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, then,” he pulled the flier from its magnet and, as he dialed Harry’s wall phone, added, “If you like, tomorrow we can go order your stain. Get into town. Visit that fit bloke at the hardware store you’re always making eyes with.”

“I have appointments tomorrow,” Harry said. “New client. Lunch with Hermione.”

“Ah, well then I guess that’s for the best—hullo! Dawn! You beautiful woman, yes it is me—” 

Wood suggested they walk into town, so they did. Or, at least, they started to. His friend still had a bit of difficulty with muggle distance and time and knowing when it might be better to apparate. They were never really going to walk ten kilometers, but Harry indulged him anyhow. It was a nice evening—every evening here was nice. Orange and pink and blue, like the watercolor painting Luna hung in the entryway of No. 12, a little yellow sailboat bobbing over sunset waves. It made Harry miss the beach, the swimming, the sun on his skin…

Wood, who had spent the last five minutes re-iterating his grievances with the upper management of the Ballycastle Bats, wasn’t paying much attention to where or how he was walking. He bumped into Harry, tripping him over a rather large rock. 

“Oi, sorry mate—anyhow so I keep trying to tell him we’ll never get Alpe with the sort of team we have now, will we? Not a quality chaser like that, or one who’s been told he is. Smug little cunt.”

“Alpe’s the American?” Harry asked.

“No, he’s the New Zealander. Mapp’s the American. Nowhere as good as Alpe but more ‘realistic’ for the Bats. That’s the word Brown’s been using. ‘Realistic.’”

“Brown’s a tosser,” Harry said, because it’s what he knew Wood would want to hear. The Bats’ Head Coach was a traditional type who made players study stacks of photographs from the early 1800s, when the team was in its prime and the game was at its worst. 

“We’ll lose Alpe to the Cannons. It’s any minute. Kid strolls around nitpicking every little thing about our training facilities, saying shit about other options . Sounds like a fucking Pureblood. Fuckin’ over-blown rich kid, prodigy seekers—over valued and over played. No offense, Harry.”

“It’s fair play. I’ve done my share of prodigizing,” Harry affirmed, to which Wood grinned. His friend had the sort of smile that wrinkled up his whole face. Lines had already started to curve around his nose.

“Right, can’t argue with that, can I? I’m not saying seekers aren’t important, it’s just Euro-Quidditch is so behind, and damn Brown won’t listen to me when I tell him we need to regroup, reorganize; think outside the bloody box!”

“The Bats are worse than most teams,” Harry offered because it was true.

“And they’re making it right bloody hard for me to turn the offensive strand around. I try to explain it to these blokes but it’s hard when you can’t show them—“ Wood flung out his hands as if he were strangling someone. Probably Brown. “Only other person who knows what a quality team looks like is you, and I can’t get you to set foot on the pitch.” 

“Take them to Carolina,” Harry offered (this, of course, was the sixth or seventh time he’d made this suggestion, to which Wood would say…)

“Yeah, right. Sure that would go over well with everyone,” and snort violently through his nose, overcompensating. Wood, Harry had come to realize, often acted as if things that hurt were funnier than they were. “Imagine, don’t ring the blokes for months, ‘hullo Skipper fancy comin’ out for a spot o’ tea in London? Mind if I bring me mates over to see the pitch? Toss a quaffle?’ No shot. He’d tell me to find Sherlock Holmes and shove his pipe up my arse. Buggers. Flaky, inconsistent, unreliable buggers.”

Harry, who had gone pink, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his cargo pants. 

“I don’t think my boys would be receptive to that style of game anyhow. Too much focus on offense. Improvisation.” Wood said.

“Maybe,” Harry said, even though he didn’t really think so. If Wood had built anything with the Bats, it was a flexible offensive strain. “Maybe you’re just too proud to ask.”

They’d stopped walking and were now standing in the middle of a dirt road.

“Harry,” Wood said, his voice low. “Not cool, mate.”

It was never a good idea to push Wood about Skipper. It would be his head if he mentioned Kauê, whose name was on the tip of his tongue. 

“I just think, Oliver,” Harry said slowly, “it would be in your best interest to send a letter. Ask after the favour they owe us.”

Wood clenched his jaw, crossed his arms. 

“I’d rather eat shit for a whole season,” he spat, physically, a wet mark seeping into the earth. Wood held grudges. Harry knew this about Wood, and Harry knew he’d gone pushy, tried to make Wood feel bad because he’d spent the day remembering.

“Right,” he said. “Right. Sorry to have brought it up.”

“You’re not,” Wood said, not angrily but in a matter-of-fact sort of way. He looked down the long, open road. “Think we ought to apparate?” 

“Maybe. We’ve hardly made it a quarter way and it's near sundown.”

“Right,” Wood said, rocking his teeth back and forth in his mouth, anxious. “Side-along, then.”

Harry offered his hand without a word. 

   xx

Harry and Wood were fine. He swore this up and down, insisted that he wanted to sleep in his studio that night not because they’d been terse with one-another, but because he needed the time to catch up on work. Wood was only convinced when he laid eyes on the butchered handle, and said he wanted to go to Luna’s anyhow. Despite Harry’s protesting, Wood shoved the remains of their pizza in the refrigerator and gave him a tight hug goodnight.

Once his friend left, Harry pulled the block of wood out of its setting and moved it to the scrap pile he kept in the corner. It would make a nice set of doorknobs for Luna’s father, he supposed, or he might even fashion it into a nice ruler for Arthur (who was taking architectural design classes at a public muggle university). He worked in the new handle to the wood until he’d caught up to where he’d fucked it up. 

It was late—maybe two or three in the morning—but there was still work to be done. Always work to be done. Harry walked over to the kitchen pantry, removed a fat green glass bottle, a purple vial, and the potion Astoria Greengrass had given him the morning before. 

He set the green bottle to the side, a Kauê home-brewed potion that would keep him up through the night and next day. But first, an experiment. 

Harry opened the polyjuice first, held the mouth to his nose. It smelled of coriander, holly, rain. He set the bottle down, and opened the purple vial—a healing potion, just in case Greengrass was attempting to poison him. Not that he thought this was likely, but it was better to take risks with precaution. 

Harry settled into the seat at the kitchen table, tipped the polyjuice down his throat. It tasted, to his delight, like treacle tart. Harry laid his head in his folded arms and waited for the discomfort of change. 

He’d become familiar with the process—turning into Wood for interviews, the rare broom delivery, the even rarer photo spread (his friend’s potion smelled of sweat, earth, and leather; he tasted of spearmint). When becoming Wood, Harry’s bones would crack longer, his muscles would inflate, the callouses of his hands would migrate into those of a flier rather than a woodworker. His pants would get looser, but that was something he kept firmly to himself—that was one of Oliver Wood’s rules: “Don’t look at my fuckin’ prick, Harry.” 

So he waited patiently for a tightening or a loosening or anything in-between. It never came. Perhaps this chap had been very similar to Harry. After thirty minutes had gone by, he looked closely at his hands. The burn scar from Eighth Year advanced potions was still between his thumb and forefinger, the long crescent he’d gouged into himself when Skipper was teaching him to carve still pale on his middle finger. Harry stood, then, and walked to the small mirror hung in the bathroom. He looked entirely like himself, if not slightly cleaner. His hair wasn’t as much of a tangled mess, but it was his hair. He lifted where it fell over his scar—this, too, was still struck into his forehead. He checked for the mole on his stomach. The toenail that had broken half-off the previous week was fully repaired, but his pinkie toe still curved in from where he’d snapped it three years prior. 

Harry, now a little panicked, stripped. Checked himself over for every blemish, every new scar, the silver fillings in his teeth. Everything was as it had been before he’d had the potion. 

Astoria turned Harry Potter into Harry Potter.

Chapter Text

Draco woke up hungover, which was unpleasant but not uncommon. He’d fallen asleep in his study, newspaper folded out over his chest, stationary strewn about his desk. The morning light that peeled through the room’s gauzy curtains made him feel ill. Draco was sick in the bin twice before he managed to scrounge up and swallow the dregs of his home-brewed nausea cure. Well, at least this gave him something to work on this afternoon. 

He entered the kitchen just as Astoria was leaving. They exchanged dry “good mornings” and suffered through brief “how are yous” before she was off. The kettle still held fresh water, a rare mercy, and he wasted no time lighting the gas for the stove to let it boil. 

Breakfast, he decided, would be two slices of bacon and egg on toast. That was likely all his freshly-settled stomach could manage. Since the Manor had been cleared of House Elves (a decision he made without the guiding hand of the Ministry), Draco found great and curious pleasure in feeding himself. While his food cooked, he folded open the newest copy of The Prophet and muddled around with the crossword, only managing eight answers before his egg timer hopped to life. 

Breakfast plated and tea poured, he walked down to the garden with the paper under his arm. Today, he would venture into London to buy a muggle film camera. Partially because he’d seen a Robert Mapplethorpe exhibition the previous week, but primarily because he thought the action would seem frivolous to Pansy and, therefore, bug the shit out of her. Draco also thought it might be nice to take the camera on his walks—send his mother pictures of what he actually did all day (i.e., nothing). 

He’d just settled comfortably into his chair to read “RELATIONS WITH AMERICAN WIZARDS FRAGILE: COULD CROCHET COOZIES BE THE ANSWER?” when the bell mounted to the siding of the Manor rang for the front door (a little system he’d charmed after the departure of the aforementioned house elves). 

Puzzled, Draco sat up straighter. Pansy would be directing the spread for the Fall issue of Witch Weekly . Blaise and his mother were still out of town. Astoria would never ring—she would never announce her presence to him at all, aside from telling him he was in her way—Theo didn’t like to meet at the Manor (terrible memories). Like his letters, the property wards should only allow a very small list of guests to enter the premises, much less ring the bloody front door.

That was when Draco remembered the letters, the clumsily folded paper, that little desk-shit Connors.

He made his way quickly to the foyer, hoping he was wrong, hoping it would be Pansy off work early or Blaise miraculously turning back up for a spontaneous friendly fuck. Instead, who he found returned his early morning nausea tenfold. 

“Oh,” the man jumped. “You’ve cut your hair.” 

Draco Malfoy promptly slammed the door.

He felt like he might fall over, or be sick all over Pansy’s vintage hand-knotted wool rug. There was a long pause. Another more hesitant knock at the door. 

“Malfoy?” A muffled voice called—one that didn’t sound anything like what he remembered. He practiced the breathing technique Pansy once read to him from an online muggle therapist’s blog. Trunk-breathing, or some other such silly name. Regardless, it calmed him enough that he was able to stand without the support of the wall. 

He must be seeing things. Perhaps this Connors fellow simply had curly hair and wore glasses—he’d been stopped cold on the street before by the silhouette of curly-headed men wearing glasses, thinking he saw someone he certainly didn’t. 

Draco opened the door again. Took a moment to really look at the man. Tall-enough, tanned, little gold rimmed glasses, three-piece brown tweed suit, unruly hair, one little red-jeweled ring on his middle finger, the remains of stress lines pressed into his face. He carried a briefcase, he wore beautiful leather shoes, his ears were double-pierced. 

This was it, then. Draco had finally snapped—there was precedent for this, of course. It was the punishment he’d begged so tirelessly to be dealt. Oh, to tell the fates or ancestors or spirits or whatever was out there, manufacturing the unfolding of his own personal doom, that his plea for “atonement” was meant to appear in more theoretical ways.  

“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting…” Potter’s eyes were still trained on the top of his head—wide, green, guarded. Draco reached a hand up to his hair, rubbed his fingers in the soft downy feel of the buzzcut. 

There were a million things Draco could say. He wanted to cook up something especially snide, but instead, “Neither was I,” tumbled out.

Harry Potter nodded, shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. Coughed. 

“No, I imagine not. It was meant to be Connors, you know, but he’s, ah, sick. And well, his interview with you would just come to me. So. Thought maybe I could cut out the middleman. So to speak,” Potter paused, searching Draco’s face. “I’m here in a professional context, you understand.”

“Professional,” Draco repeated. 

“Yes. Hard Wood &co.,” he said. “I understand you’re resistant to our process. Connors forwarded your correspondence. I’ll have to purchase more stationary for the office. Very unprofessional.”

Draco stared at Potter, he imagined very stupidly. 

“Isn’t that Oliver Wood’s business? Are you another of his desk-boys? The Saviour of the appointment book?” 

Draco sounded young and bitter, even to himself. Certainly not his finest work. Even Potter looked more disappointed than annoyed.

“No. I’m the ‘company.’ Wood has a very small hand in making the brooms. I don’t really perform house calls or conduct initial consultations,” he said, holding Draco’s gaze. “But this is obviously a tender case.”

“Tender,” Draco repeated, again, letting the word roll around in his mouth.

“Maybe particular is a better word,” Potter moved to look around him, into the house. “I’m a little short on time. Lunch appointment. Could I come in?”

Draco looked at Potter, who was fingering the little broom and snitch charm necklace that hung around his neck, and shook his head. 

“No,” he said. Potter furrowed his brow. 

“No?”

“Certainly not. This is ridiculous, you’re clearly not Harry Potter,” he said, “Clearly not. This is all very low. What are you, some sort of polyjuiced scammer? A lookalike dancer Pansy hired? How much are they paying you? How did you get through the wards? I put those wards up myself—there’s not a crack in them—I ought to contact the Aurors—”

“You wouldn’t,” the non-Potter said, a little too confidently for Draco’s liking. 

“Like hell I won’t,” he said. “You’d be better scurry on home to your employer—whoever it may be—and tell them you couldn’t get what you were after. I knew that letter was a pile of shit—”

“Malfoy,” Potter said, firm, cutting him off. Draco had backed into the house, closing the door. Potter put a hand on it, applied just enough pressure that his pushing felt like asking. Draco felt sicker. “It’s just me. No tricks. I make brooms, I’ve been hired to make you a broom. I’d like to do it.” 

“Tell me something, then,” Draco said, not letting Potter inside of the house, but not shoving him away, either. “Tell me something only we would know.” 

Potter clenched his jaw. 

“I didn’t want to get into all that Malfoy—”

“Don’t be foolish. This,” Draco cut him off, gesturing between the two of them, “is always going to be personal.”

Potter’s face hardened. Softened. Hardened again, then closed off completely. 

“The fiendfyre,” Harry said. “You held onto me. On my broom.”

“Very obvious pick. I gave an interview about that in 2007,” Draco said. 

“You did?” Potter’s brow furrowed. “I was out of the country.”

“Where?” Draco asked. Potter grimaced. 

“That’s my business, isn’t it?” 

This seemed more like the Potter he knew—exasperated, impatient—it was a better act than the detached professionalism, but still.

“You aren’t especially convincing, are you?” Draco countered. 

“Sectumsempra,” the non-Potter grimaced to even say it. “In the bathroom. I–I was reactionary, I practically ribboned you—”

“2005, some rag Prophet reporters got Pomfrey tipsy. ‘EXCLUSIVE: SAVIOUR OR SAVANT.’ They ran a real revival-style hate campaign on you—him, I suppose—that summer. Your sort wouldn’t leave me alone for weeks.” 

“My sort?” 

“You know, impersonators. Information gatherers. Professional snoops. Anyone with enough coin and time on their hands to spend it bothering me.” 

This seemed to trouble the non-Potter, who worked his jaw in frustration. There was something in his expression, the way he tensed when Draco spoke, the way he squared his shoulders while simultaneously hunching into himself, that felt…

“Look. No fiendfyre, no sappy sectumsempra nonsense, certainly nothing about my mother’s hearing or my lack of hearing—nothing about the war. Give me something else. Something real.”

“Do we have anything else?” non-Potter asked. 

Draco hadn’t realized he’d leaned so far outside, standing nearly a head taller than Potter even now. He was looming, pushing his face closer and closer to the other man. This question—this ignorant, silly question—was enough to pull Draco back to the doorframe.

He scoffed.

“As I thought,” he said, putting his hand in his pocket, feeling the grip of his wand. “I don’t like to call on Aurors, but if you don’t exit the premises immediately I’ll be forced to—”

“‘I hate him,’,” Potter said, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes tight. “‘I hate him and if you testify for him, I’ll hate you even more than I already do. He should rot, and I should rot—you’ve only done my mother a favor and I’m expected to say thank-you. And I hate myself, too, because I am thankful. I am a thankful coward.’” 

Draco froze. Potter said nothing, but removed his hand from the door. Backed up a half-step. 

Draco looked at the ground, looked at Potter whose guarded expression now flooded with open pity. Draco sighed through his nose, cast his eyes back to the ground, and let his hand fall from the door. He backed further into the hall. 

“You remember the whole thing,” Draco said. It wasn’t a question. Potter had the decency to look sheepish, at least. 

“It left an impression,” Potter said, and Draco wished he’d look at the ground or the sandstone and slate siding of the Manor or really anywhere but at him. 

“A horrible thing to be. Eighteen.”

“Horrible,” Potter nodded. Draco sighed again, rubbed a thumb into the back of his neck.

“I still. I. Damn,” he felt crowded by Potter, now, even though the man stood several paces away. “I–”

There was so much to say. None of it came out. Draco could taste it in the back of his throat. Panic. Disgust. Fear. Nicotine.

“You can always tell me no, after,” Potter said, his voice a fraction gentler than it had been, the same as he’d used all those years ago, bent next to Draco’s infirmary bed. Please, please, please I didn’t mean to—

“I’ll make us tea, you can ask me your questions.”

He took Potter to the kitchen and motioned for him to sit at the dining table while he put on the kettle. Draco swung open the window that looked two stories over the gardens. Outside, a rabbit nosed its way out from under a hydrangea bush. He took the glass ashtray from the drying rack, set it on the outside sill. 

“It’ll take the water a moment,” he said absently, pulling a pack of Dunhills from the pocket of his trousers. “I’ve got Earl Grey, hope that’s alright.”

“That’s great, really,” Potter said, arranging and re-arranging a yellow legal pad and ballpoint pen. “You do it the muggle way?”

“Yes.” Draco flicked at his lighter. Nearly empty. “It’s loose, so it’ll need time to steep—my mother sent this blend while she was south.”  

Draco watched the smoke curl into the mid-morning sky before looking over his shoulder, knowing Potter was watching him. The other man’s gaze always had a specific weight which made Draco feel as if he were in school again, which consequently made him briefly consider pitching himself from the window.  Potter’s eyes had migrated focus from his buzzed head to his left forearm, which was tightly bandaged. Draco braced, anticipating an “innocent” question or pointed comment that never came.

“How is your mother?” Potter asked instead, meeting Draco’s eyes. He took another long drag from his cigarette.

“She’s fabulous.” Draco tapped ash into the tray. “Look, Potter, let’s keep this brief. I know you have an appointment.”

Potter looked poised to ask another question. The kettle whistled, which was fantastic. Draco smashed what little was left of his cigarette into the ashtray, moved to pull the kettle from the stove.

“Do you take milk? Sugar?” he asked Potter.

“Both please.”

They settled into a horrible silence as the kettle’s whistle sputtered, as Draco prepared the tea, as Draco walked to the refrigerator to grab a carton of almond milk. 

Potter spoke again. 

“Who made your cabinets?” he asked. 

“My cabinets?” Draco repeated, looking up. He’d never considered them before. “They’re ancient. I have no idea.” 

“They’re beautiful. Heartwood, I think. The grain starts out silver, you know, before it mellows.” 

“ Fascinating ,” Draco said, certainly not meaning it. At least Potter had something new to focus his terrible, intense stare on. “How many sugar cubes would you like? Two?”

“Three, if you don’t mind. And a little more than a splash of milk.” 

“Do you even want to taste the tea?” Draco asked, but tonged three little cubes into the brew anyhow. Potter didn’t respond. When Draco turned to set his cup on the island, the other man was still fixated entirely on the cabinets. 

“So, you make the brooms then?” he prompted. Potter reluctantly peeled his eyes away from the wood. 

“Yes.”

“Individual to the flier? Like wands?” he asked, repeating what he remembered from the Q’ s article. Potter made a face, but nodded. “How’d you ever end up doing something like that? I hadn’t heard of such a thing.”

“You realize the world is much bigger than ours, when you finally leave it,” Potter offered. Draco waited for more. It didn’t come. 

“Cryptic,” he said. “I suppose you won’t tell me who my secret sponsor is.”

“Can’t. It’s against policy,” Potter replied, finally taking a sip from his mug. “This is good. I'm a little surprised you don’t have House Elves to do it for you.” 

“I haven’t had House Elves since my mother left, Potter. Archaic, ghastly. I can fend just as well for myself.” 

“You speak very individualistically for a married man,” Potter said. 

“Fine, then, we can fend just as well for ourselves . Are you performing a consultation or an interview? Don’t you want to know my flying habits?” Draco snapped. 

“No need to get testy, Malfoy,” Potter said, taking another sip of his tea. “As I remember, you wrote that you don’t fly.” 

“I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t much care for it,” Draco said, rubbing at a suspicious brown spot on the granite countertops that had previously gone unnoticed. “I never have.”

“You’re lying,” Potter said. He hadn’t written anything down on the legal pad. 

“I don’t need you to believe me,” Draco said. “I was forced into it as a child, I never cared for it, I stopped as soon as I was able.”

It was nearly true. True enough. As good as Potter deserved. It was too early in the morning for intense conversation about Lucius, especially with Harry Potter. 

“I’ve seen you fly, Malfoy.” Potter said, as if Draco could interpret what the hell that was supposed to mean. “It left an impression.”

Draco, who didn’t know how to respond to that, cleared his throat. 

“You saw me fly, Potter, in past-tense, almost fifteen years ago, now,” Draco took another sip of his tea. “I’m sure your imagination is flawed. There were more important things to think about than the House Cup.”

“Maybe. It was nice to pretend, though,” Potter said, somehow staring Draco down, even while sitting. Apparently, he expected a response. 

“Yes. I suppose it was.”

Potter studied him for a moment, then scribbled something. 

“What’ve you written?”

“Draco Malfoy agrees with me, and then the date,” Potter said, his face deadly serious. Draco, too caught off guard by the attempt at a joke, didn’t laugh. “Do you follow quidditch at all? You mentioned you read the Q .” 

“Sometimes, yes. I favor the Kestrels this year for the cup, but I’ve always had a soft spot for the Harpies,” he paused. “Wood’s Bats are shite.”

“Of course they are, it’s an upper management issue.” Potter waved him off. “The Kestrals have a strong seeker. So do the Harpies. Do you think a strong seeker wins a game?”

“That feels like a trick question, coming from you,” Draco replied. “But technically, yes, that’s where all the points lie. The team supports the seeker, the seeker scores the points, the seeker gets the glory, and so on and so forth. Those are the basic rules of the game.”

“You were a good seeker,” Potter said. Draco stood up a little straighter. 

“I was adequate.” 

“More than adequate, I’d say.”

“You’re appealing to my vanity, Potter.” Draco stood abruptly, moving back to the window, fishing his half-finished cigarette from the ashtray. It filled him; held him like a warm hug. 

“Why did you stop flying, Malfoy?” Potter asked. “Honestly.” 

“I’ve already told you,” Draco said, pursing his lips. “I disliked it.” 

“Okay, then,” Potter said, eyes still trained on his tea. He looked up for a moment, then back down. “Why did you cut your hair?”

“Why does my hair matter?”

“I’m curious.”  

“You’re getting very personal.” Draco felt as if he were under a microscope—as if Potter were preparing him for some sort of sick emotional dissection. 

“That’s how it goes,” Potter said, now running a hand over his tall kitchen table. “It’s part of the job. Professional personalism. I’ve got to know particulars to make something particular. If I’m left to assume things about you, it’s likely I’ll get information wrong, y’know? Start caulking gaps. I might think you’ve cut your hair because it was getting warm, or because you thought it might make you look—anyhow assumptions lead to misplaced aesthetics. In my experience.”

“I cut my hair because I thought it would look pretty,” Draco bit back. 

“Sure,” Potter said. 

“Don’t sound as if you know better.”

“That’s the thing, Malfoy. I don’t know any better.” Potter looked up from the table, where the tips of his fingers had found a particular gouged grove. Made, Draco knew, when his father had thrown a butcher’s knife into its surface. 

Draco didn’t know what to say to this, to Potter caressing the split in the table, to this Potter who acted equal parts as if he were a stranger, an enemy, an estranged friend.

“Why are you doing this, Potter?”

“Because I think—” Potter paused, looking away from him toward the kitchen cabinets. Draco felt as if a wasps nest had broken somewhere low in his belly. “Because I had a good idea what I would make for you when I walked up the drive, and now I’ve got no idea. I think whatever I could do, there won’t be anything else like it in the world, and that’s really exciting.”

A beat. Potter sketched something loose on his legal pad, a shape Draco couldn't comprehend. He looked back up. 

“You can always tell me no,” he repeated.

“I won’t.” It was too honest, Draco knew, and he saw it in the way Potter’s eyes flashed, his shoulders tensed.

“Besides,” Draco turned back to the window, studying the hollowed butt of his cigarette. “You’ve already been paid to handle me. I’d never deny a man his hard-earned income.”

“I didn’t say yes for the money,” Potter said, almost entirely sucked into whatever it was he’d begun on his legal pad. “Besides, I haven’t been paid yet.”

“No?” Draco asked. The rabbit outside was joined by another. They sniffed at each other, noses nearly bumping. “That’s awfully trusting, especially if it’s one of my friends. Haven’t you considered that I’d go to the papers?” 

“Of course.”

“And you trust me?” Draco asked, turning away from the garden to regard Potter again. He didn’t even bother to look up from his drawing.  

“No. I trust it’s my word against yours.” 

As he showed Potter to the door, Draco caught his reflection—white shirt, striped sleep pants, his face shone, his eyes were wild. He was a horrible, oily mess. Too shocked to feel properly embarrassed, the realization was enough to stoke the fire of his emerging fury.

Draco had learned a great deal about anger management since his teens. Really, he prided himself on his ability to leave his wand in his pocket, to step back from a situation and analyze. Once he bid Potter a cool farewell, Draco returned to his bedroom, put his wand on the side table, and proceeded to dress himself. A linen button down, cream trousers, a thin silver glasses chain, the sapphire rings which were once his mothers’. He examined himself in the full-length mirror. 

“Class,” he said to his own image. “Class, class, pure class.”

By the time Draco convinced himself it was childish to show up at Pansy’s place of work, he’d already apparated three times, booked an obnoxiously expensive portkey, walked through the great heavy doors of an Italian cathedral, and greeted her assistant, who looked confused, but not unhappy to see him. Draco was shuffled to the corner, where he took refuge in an empty pew, apart from other members of staff ready to jump to attention if called upon. 

Pansy was doing her very best not to hover over the photographer, standing apart, bent over a collection of paper and bits of fabric, her eyes unmoving from the screen. After about ten minutes, she stood straight, pulled down the bunched-up hem of her dark purple waistcoat, and said:

“Andy—Andy, thank you, please just stop.”

She hardly had to raise her voice for everyone to pause. The white noise of shuffling fabric, encouragement called out by the photographer, clicking heels of the diligent PA in charge of straightening the almost comically long hem of editorial-style robes—it all stopped.  The photographer lowered his camera.

Pansy pointed to the creative director with one, long finger. Beckoned him over. Turned her screen so that he might see it.

“Alban, what do you think the problem is?” she asked. The director scratched his chin. Glanced over at the models, who had unposed themselves and watched, tense as upright prairie dogs. Pansy sighed, plucked an open magazine from the top of the stack. 

“This,” she said, tapping the spread, “this is from the Fall 1996 issue of Witch Weekly . Look here, look there. Tell me. What’s wrong.”

The creative director stayed silent, looking from the magazine to the screens to the setup in the pulpit. Pansy shook her head, turned away from him, pressed her thumb against her front teeth.

“Draco,” she said. “Come here, won’t you?”

All eyes turned toward the back of the room, where Draco stood. He made his way toward the front, where Pansy made space for him to stand. 

“Darling, look at these. Tell me I’m not crazy,” she flitted a hand over the print ad, over the screen. He picked up the offending issue—witches and wizards posed in more conservative, traditional robes on the steps of a muggle cathedral. He looked up at the gaggle of witches who stared back at him, at the stone steps, at the significantly less impressive stained glass windows. 

Pansy was watching him over the smallest pair of sunglasses he’d ever seen. 

“What do you think?” she asked. 

“It looks the same, doesn’t it?” he said. “Only less impressive. Did you happen to receive my letter?” 

“Yes, exactly thank you— Alban did you hear that? This isn’t a copy, this isn’t an homage, this is meant to be satirical and we look tired, dry, boring. Is Witch Weekly boring?” She turned to the room, shaking the old magazine above her head. She was met with a sheepish chorus of no ma’am . 

“I don’t think so, either,” Pansy said. “Girls, take fifteen. Andy, refresh your film. Alban—if you can’t fix it by the time I’m back, I’ll be forced to do everything myself and take the extra pay.” 

The wizard took the magazine from her, holding it up to the screen. He muttered something quick, bitter, and French. Draco was near certain he caught a particularly nasty une chienne. Pansy turned back to him, jerked her chin toward the back of the cathedral.

“Privacy, first,” she said. “Then we’ll talk.”

Pansy’s staff parted like the red sea, pulling him from the main room into what looked like an in-use office. Her tight, long navy skirt swishing to fill the silence. She sat behind the desk and motioned for Draco to have a seat. He perched, back straight, ass on the edge of an uncomfortable couch squashed next to an overcrowded bookshelf. 

“Well?” she asked, pulling the letter he’d scribbled out in anger nearly two hours before from the front pocket of her waistcoat, tossing it on the desk. “What’s this about then?”

“You’ve read it?”

“I’ve read it,” she said, nodding, “but I’m not sure if this is a page from your schoolboy journal, a prank, or a delusion. I mean really, Draco, the wanking papers are harmless enough—”

“That is a gross misrepresentation—”

“—but ‘Harry Potter was in my kitchen,’ becomes deeply concerning. I mean, what am I supposed to make of this, Draco?” Her voice was equal parts firm and gentle as she reached an open hand out across the table. He stared into her open palm, but did not take it. 

“Pansy,” he said slowly, crossing his arms, sitting even straighter. “Don’t act stupid. I know this little setup was your doing—I mean really, sending Potter to my house is crossing a line—”

“My doing?” She cut him off. 

“You’re the only person I know with connections to businesses like this,” he said, “who might have been able to dig up the fact that Potter is secretly behind the brooms. Who knows about my, well—”

“Your obsession?” she asked, raising a brow. 

“My vague interest,” he corrected her. “And while I in theory appreciate the gesture—”

“First of all,” she stood, pressing her hands into the desk. “Be serious. If I sent Harry Potter to your house mid-morning on a Tuesday, I’d expect you to come crawling on your hands and knees to thank me for my expert manipulation and generous gesture. You’ve taken a good decade off my life whining after him.”

“That’s certainly not true,” he narrowed his eyes. His expression was easily met tenfold. 

“Really? ‘Oh, Pansy,’” she threw her head back, sighed, pitched her voice up and airy. “‘Pansy, he was watching me this morning at breakfast, didn’t you see? Pansy, I can’t believe he doesn’t want to be my friend. Pansy, do you think if I just talked with him? Pansy, we smoked in the courtyard, Pansy he told me about his uncle, Pansy he was seen with the buff Weasley he could do so much better, Pansy, he’s missing do you think he’s alright? I bet he’s sick of all of us, Pansy. Pansy, Pansy, he’s come back. You’re right, Pansy, it would be a terrible time to write—Pansy, he was in my house. Pansy, Pansy, Pansy—’”

She opened one eye to look at him. Draco’s arms crossed as tight as they might. 

“Are you quite finished?” he asked. 

“No. There’s my favorite, from when we went out on New Years, remember? ‘Pansy, I bet he’s got a thick, fat—’”

“Point taken ,” he snapped. “Also, I sound nothing like that.”

“That’s exactly how you sound. Pathetic. Draco, you’re a grown man—by my estimation if you wanted to seek out Potter for a fuck or a confessional or whatever it is, you have the faculties to manage it yourself.” She sat back down, placed one hand over the other. “So even if this isn’t a delusion—which is still where my bed lies, mind you—I certainly wasn’t behind it.”

“Not even a little?”

“Draco, my staff have been owling that man for months trying to get five minutes for an interview,” Pansy shook her head. “Again, even if I believe this is real—not me.”

“Pansy,” he said. “I woke up to Harry Potter, who I assume still thinks of me as some sort of bigoted degenerate, knocking on my door, offering to make me a broom in the name of Oliver Wood’s company. He told me things only I would know. He sat in my kitchen, he drank my tea, he acted strangely and then suggested we meet again this coming Thursday. I—have I lied to you before, Pans?”

She gave him a flat look. 

“Since we’ve been adults,” Draco corrected. 

“You said that coral two piece set looked good on me, three years ago, muggle charity shop,” she squinted.

“Yes, well, to be fair—”

“A coral canvas two piece set, no label, faux pockets,” she rolled her eyes, poked a finger into her mouth and pretended to gag. 

“It was vintage .”

“It was horrendous,” she said. She leaned back in the chair of whatever clergyman belonged to this office, kicked her feet up on the desk, chewed the inside of her cheek. “Say I give you the benefit of the doubt—”

“I’d take veritaserum if that makes it easier on you.”

“—and believe this isn’t all some strange drunken dream, or that you’ve got a terrible concussion, or that you’ve undone about a decade of progress—”

“Pansy, I’d make a pensive memory if you’d like.”

“—you’re suggesting in this letter that I’ve set you up for some sort of intended or unintended emotional torture. And that I take a little offense to,” she rubbed at a spot of dust on her skirt, trying very hard not to look bothered. “I’d never force you in a room with someone we knew from school, whom you feel indebted toward,  just to, what? Laugh at your expense? Pray you get your rocks off and shut up about it?”

“Well, maybe you thought it was Oliver Wood,” Draco asked. “And you’re always trying to get me to take up some sort of hobby. I—Pansy, I’ll concede that it’s unfair to say you sent Harry Bloody Potter to my home, but if you put in for me to get one of these brooms as a nice gesture—well, thanks but no thanks.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “You don’t need an artisan broom to fly around your backyard. I don’t have money to toss at a gift you’d never use.”

“Then who?”

“The easy answer is your mother,” Pansy said, sounding a little more venomous than Draco might have liked. “Perhaps Blaise. Maybe it was your sweet little wife.”

“Yes, and tomorrow the sky will purple,” Draco crossed his arms. “You swear it wasn’t you?”

“On my job.” She sat up, leaned back across the desk, extended a hand. This time, Draco took it. “On. My. Job.”

“So you believe me?” he asked. 

“Tentatively,” she said, squeezing his hand. “But if you display signs of a concussion, I will forcibly restrain and deposit you in the emergency care unit at St. Mungos.”

“Pansy, the things he told me—”

“Can wait,” she said, checking her watch. “I’ve got to wrangle the imps. Get off my set, go to my apartment, and pour yourself a shot of Dreamless Sleep if you like. When I get off work we can get pissed and talk through every microscopic detail. Does that sound alright?”

“Sounds perfect,” Draco stood, held the door for her. “Want to make dinner?”

“I’ll be exhausted,” she shook her head. “Best to pick up takeout on my way back. You can use the company portkey to get you back to Diagon, if you like. I’ll write you off as a consultant or something equally useless.”

“Pansy,” he said her name, stopping her before she could tornado away from him. “Thank you.”

“It’s what I’m here for.” She smiled, dipped her head, and hurried back down the corridor. 

xx

Pansy’s family kept nothing after the war. Her parents liquidated the family estate along with various assets across the United Kingdom—including a house in Northern Ireland where she and Draco had spent much of their childhood. Her parents and brother relocated to join the Parkinsons in South Africa. Of course, she’d been offered to come, continue living in comfort, so long as she was married. 

They’d considered it, Draco and Pansy. Shacking up, nullifying the heir, doing as they pleased with who they pleased for as long as they liked. It had been his idea, and he’d proposed it to her very seriously a year after the trials officially ended. 

In the end, Pansy Parkinson couldn’t imagine a life framed in duty. She said as much to her parents. They, of course, promptly cut her off. 

Even at the time, she’d seemed nonplussed. She lined up an internship with The Tattler, which turned into a freelance sex column in The Prophet, which found connections to a more managerial, creative position at Witch Weekly , which, at the time, had been desperately attempting to distance its image from conservative pureblood aesthetics.

“I’m a queer who's been cut off from her shady family,” she’d told him, pink with firewhiskey and hope. “I’m a public, controversial hire. They’re practically slobbering at my feet.”

It was only a matter of time before Pansy climbed the editorial ranks. She was efficient, she was productive, she was Witch Weekly . This had come with a significant bump in salary, which in turn was reflected in her beautiful two-bedroom apartment, a mere two blocks away from the office. 

Unlike the Manor, Pansy’s home smelled and felt and looked entirely like her. Draco remembered when the walls were once bare, the furniture was cheap and easy to break down, and the brick fireplace did little but cough up ash. They’d wired in the floo network themselves, scoured London art galleries and secondhand shops for the art underlit in her foyer—art nouveau posters, abstract ballerinas, an original film poster for The Passion of Joan of Arc . Draco took comfort walking through this, took comfort in the memories of Pansy telling him one frame was too far left, the other too low. 

Everything about stepping into Pansy’s apartment felt familiar—and it was with ease that Draco entered her kitchen, poured himself a glass of firewhiskey, and made himself comfortable in the guest bed. He dug out a second set of ‘indoor’ clothes left in her dresser, and moved to change in the bathroom where, two years ago, she’d shaved off his hair. 

The weather had been especially foul the day Lucius Malfoy was released from Azkaban. Torrential rains, as if the spirits were crying on behalf of Draco’s total misery. He kept himself busy, locked in his study with an Ancient Rune translation project. A play about a young wizard murdering his father and, consequently, feeding him to his unwanted children—that year’s passion project. It was only a coincidence he’d picked it up when whispers of ‘good behavior’ and ‘parole’ began circling through pureblood circles. 

That morning, he sent an official statement to The Prophet, and that afternoon he and Astoria got into their worst yelling match since the first year of marriage. 

“It would have been much better to say nothing,” she’d said, paper trembling in her hand. “You may ruin us with this—our friends—”

“He deserves to have his soul sucked through his arsehole,” Draco yelled right back. He hadn’t raised his voice at anyone in a very long time. He sounded hoarse, on the verge of tears. 

“It’s a good thing for him to be absolved, you understand. For your name, which is now our name—I let you scream and fuck and treat me as if I were a ghost but if you are going to ruin anyone, make sure it is yourself, Draco Malfoy.”

“You make me feel like your jailer.”

“You’re acting like one,” she said, “making comments for all of us. Your father—”

“He is not my father,” Draco said. 

“Then why do you try so hard to be like him? Your tailored clothes, your vague diplomatic speech, your letterhead, the cold hatred you carry in your heart—”

“Astoria—”

“—even your bloody hair. If you hate the man how can you stand to look at yourself —”

“Astoria, you are as much an inconvenience to me as I am to you.”

She’d broken something. A vase or a pot or a clock, it didn’t matter. She’d taken it from the bookshelf and smashed it to the ground, and she’d looked at him with more hatred than he knew a person ever could. Her hand was on her wand, and she raised it at him.

“Get out.”

Along Diagon and onto Knockturn, that face stared down at him—pictures from during the war, pictures from when Lucius was in school, some which included Draco and his mother. 

THE FORGIVEN WILL NOT EXTEND FORGIVENESS.  

The Prophet headline that Astoria had been so concerned about was posed up by a photograph that must have been taken just that morning—Lucius Malfoy in a new set of expensive robes looked solemn, guarded, bitter. His hair somehow the same length as when he’d entered. 

It took Draco another look to realize the picture was of himself. 

Somehow, he wound up at Pansy’s apartment, where he shouldered through the door and taken a pair of kitchen scissors to his hair, tied in a ponytail at the base of his neck. He had to saw at it—repeat the motion until he freed himself of the long, thick hair his mother had said made him look ‘so grown’ only days before. Pansy had said something to him about the mess, about her kitchen, about blood. She’d steered him quickly, gently by the shoulders into the guest bathroom, where he’d look at himself in the mirror. He was deathly pale. His hair was uneven, greasy. When he ran a hand through it, it slicked back. He looked fourteen again—sickly and strung-out. 

“Pansy,” he said, and turned to look up at her. She’d been crying, at some point—mascara and eyeliner smudged below her eyes, across her cheek. “Pansy, I—Pansy it’s got to go, I need it off, I look like—”

She’d done it without question, used the tip of her wand and went around his head steadily. They did not speak until she was done, rubbing the remaining bits of hair from his head onto her bathroom floor. She’d nicked the top of his ear.

“I can fix that,” she said, offering him a hand towel. “I’ve got a potion—”

“No,” Draco said. The white towel bloomed red. “Leave it. Please.” 

He didn’t return to the Manor that night. They laid in bed together. She held him tight as he cried. Just like they had during the war. 

In the morning, Pansy burned pancakes and complained about work. She pretended, gracefully, that nothing happened. As she mixed mimosas, Draco’s owl rapped on the window. A white envelope with green ink, addressed to My Son . 

With a flick of his wand, it was burned without reading.

Just as well.