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The day Draco Malfoy disappeared was notable only for the fact that no-one noticed. They couldn’t. They no longer remembered that he ever existed.

***** 

Several months later

“…and then,” Harry said, wrinkling his nose and holding out his glass for a refill of whisky, “he said that, if I put some hard work into the filing, I might be able to go out on an assignment in one or two months.” He knocked back the contents of the glass in one swallow. “One or two months! I’ve been working in the Auror department for nearly a year now. I mean for fuck’s sake. I defeated Voldemort and now I’m not even allowed to go out on a routine patrol.”

Hermione’s lips were pursed and she swirled the dregs of her red wine around in the bottom of her glass. “Aren’t you being a bit unfair,” she started. “After all—”

“No, I’m not!” Harry all but yelled, then took a deep breath and tried to keep calm. It wasn’t Hermione’s fault, after all, so there was no excuse for yelling at her. “I’m just so bored. I keep getting all the paperwork muddled and then I have to do it all again. I'm no good at it – I want to be out there, helping, not stuck inside getting a headache over whether a case of misuse of a foe-glass should go under Mirrors or Dark Detectors or any other of a million different categories.” He picked up the bottle of Old Ogden’s and poured himself a large measure. “Oh,” he said, “and then, you’ll never guess what.” Hermione opened her mouth but he didn’t give her a chance to guess, just steamed ahead. “I asked if they’d come to any decision regarding Malfoy’s house arrest, and Kingsley had the nerve to pretend he’d never heard of Malfoy.” He took a vicious sip of his drink. “I mean, what’s that all about?”

“Lucius?” Ron asked. “He’s got house arrest for the next five years, hasn’t he?”

Harry turned to Ron. He was sprawled out on the couch, nursing a can of beer in one hand, his brow wrinkled. “No, I meant Draco,” Harry replied. “They’ve only got him on house arrest until they decide what to do with him.”

Ron’s brow creased further. “Dra—?”

“Yes, Draco Malfoy,” Harry said slowly, as if Ron were an idiot. “Want me to spell it out?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “No idea who you’re talking about, mate,” he said with a shrug. “Stupid name though. Is he a distant relative of Lucius Malfoy?”

Harry refrained from throwing his whisky glass at Ron’s head. It had been a long – long and boring – day and all he wanted was a bit of sympathy from his friends, not a piss take. “Give it a rest,” he said, slamming his glass down hard on the coffee table. It made an ominous crack and he grabbed his wand, muttering Reparo at it. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Seriously, mate,” Ron said, shifting on the couch until he was sitting more upright. He ran a hand through his hair and frowned. “I’ve got no idea who you’re talking about.”

Harry turned to Hermione. She’d got up and was standing by the bookshelf of their shared flat, running one finger over the spines of the books and mumbling to herself. “Hermione, help me out here?” he asked. “Tell me you remember Draco. I wish I couldn't, but sadly no such luck.”

Hermione pulled a book out and sat down to next to Ron. “I think we might have a problem,” she said, opening up the book and scanning the contents page.

“What, that Ron’s being a dick?” Harry said, crossing his arms. “You can’t fix that with magic, more’s the pity.”

Hermione looked up. “I can’t remember who this – this man you mentioned is either, Harry,” she said, and ran one hand through her hair. “What did you say his name was?”

“Draco. Draco Malfoy,” Harry said. An odd, tight feeling had taken hold of his insides and was squeezing. What the hell was going on here? “Our school enemy? Let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts? Only son of Lucius git-face Malfoy?”

Hermione shook her head. “I – I don’t remember,” she said. She scowled. “But it’s not like I’ve never heard of him. I feel like I should remember. It’s too… blank.” She waved her free hand about in frustration. “There’s something magical at work here. You say he’s Lucius’ son?”

Harry nodded.

Hermione flicked through the pages of the book she was holding. “Ah, got it,” she said, running her finger under the lines of the text as she read. “I – I can’t read some it properly,” she announced. Her voice wavered. “The words are too blurry.” She focused. “I can read the other paragraphs,” she said, “but not that one.” She held the book out to Harry, pointing to a specific section.

Harry took it and found himself holding Who’s Who in the Wizarding World (14573rd Edition). He scanned the page in front of him and found himself reading a smarmy biography of Lucius Malfoy, complete with details of his wife – and son. The writing didn’t do anything funny when he looked at it. He frowned, and read out the bit about Draco, before turning hopefully to Ron and Hermione. “Well?”

Ron scratched his head and took a swig from his beer can. “Do you know,” he said, “I couldn’t tell you a thing about what you just read out,” he said. “I know you read something, but I’ve got no idea what it was. There’s something odd happening here, mate.”

“You can say that again,” Harry said, shutting the book. “And it’s not just the fact that we appear to own a copy of Who’s Who.”

Hermione had the grace to look embarrassed. “You never know when it will come in handy,” she said, taking it back from him and replacing it on the shelf. “I’ve worked my way through a good chunk of it, soliciting donations for S.P.E.W.” She sat back down and reached for her wine, topping it up and taking a meditative sip. “There’s some magic on – on—”

“Draco,” Harry supplied.

“Yes,” Hermione agreed. “On – on who you just said – on his name. On his whole existence, perhaps. If a Malfoy is being so well hidden, it can’t bode well. I think you’d better speak to Kingsley about it tomorrow.”

“I will,” Harry said. Trust the Malfoys to be up to something, he thought with growing anger. Couldn’t they just give up and let the world get on with it? How many times would he have to save Draco’s life before… He scowled at his whisky. He wouldn’t do it again. Whatever Draco was up to this time, he wouldn’t have Harry to catch him when he fucked it up. He was on his own. 

***** 

“Where’s the fucking whisky?” Harry snapped, banging cupboard doors and all but shoving one of the twin sofas aside to see if the bottle was hiding behind it.

“Sit,” Hermione ordered, shoving him down onto the sofa and placing a cup of tea in his hands. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I need a drink,” Harry said, breathing heavily. Something – anything – to numb the impotent anger and frustration that he’d hoped he’d left behind him after the end of the war.

“No, you don’t,” Hermione said gently. She sat down next to him, tucking her feet under his legs. “Tell me what’s wrong,” she said again.

Harry looked down into the mug of steaming tea and wondered what had been the worst thing about his day. Was it that Kingsley no longer seemed to think his sanity intact, or that he was being treated like the resident tea-boy? “He said,” Harry managed to grind out, “that I was being ridiculous. That I shouldn’t have expected to be made a full Auror without years of training, and I should stop acting like a child.”

Hermione said nothing, and Harry was grateful for that. He blinked back the stupid tears that stung his eyes. The mug in his hands was hot, but he gripped it tighter. “I didn’t tell him about Draco,” he said. “I could have Crucio’d him,” he whispered. “Fucking hell, I nearly did.”

Hermione took the tea from him and put her arms around him. “But you didn’t,” she said in his ear. “You’re better than that.”

“Aren’t you going to say ‘I told you so’?” Harry mumbled, awkwardly returning the hug. “You said I should reconsider being an Auror, at least for a couple of years.”

Hermione hugged him tight. “I just want you to be happy,” she said. She pulled away, pushing her hair away from her face. She reached for the cup of tea, handing it back to Harry.

Harry blew on the tea and sipped it gratefully. The lump in his throat made it hard to swallow, and the tea was so hot it burned his tongue, but it distracted him from the feeling of hopelessness that threatened to overcome him. What the hell was he good for, if he wasn’t an Auror? Nothing, that’s what. He felt a bit stupid for being so melodramatic, but he’d done his life’s work at age seventeen, so what was the rest of it for exactly? He’d hoped it would be for marrying Ginny and having his own family, but he couldn’t deny to himself any longer that marrying Ginny had about as much appeal as marrying Ron – he didn’t want to be Ginny’s husband, he wanted to be a part of her family. How could he marry her knowing that?

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do?” Hermione asked.

Harry forced down a mouthful of tea. He could feel it burning his throat as he swallowed, a line of pain searing down between his ribs. He shrugged.

“Why don’t you ask for a leave of absence and try and track down D— You know. What’s his name,” Hermione said.

“How would I find him?” Harry asked. “I don’t really want to find him, you know,” he said. “We weren’t what you’d call friends.” He frowned. “I do have his wand, I suppose. I could give it back to him.”

Hermione looked startled for a moment, then laughed, faintly. “I’d say that’s a pretty good reason to find someone,” she said. “How did you get that?” Then she made a face like she'd sucked a lemon. “I know how you got it,” she said, “but it doesn’t make sense. Merlin, this is infuriating!”

Harry laughed, trying not to sound as bitter as he felt. “I don't want to find Draco,” he said, taking another sip of tea. “But I suppose I have to, don't I?” He rolled his eyes. “My first case, and it's an unofficial, and truly irritating, one.” A thought occurred to him. “Shit,” he said, “I'll have to go to Malfoy Manor, won't I?”

Hermione patted him on the leg. “If you want me to go with you, I will.”

When Harry looked over at her, her eyes were bright and her chin was very firm, her head tilted up high. He couldn't make her go there with him – the memories were bad enough for him, and he hadn't been nearly savaged by a werewolf. “I'll be fine, Hermione,” he said, hoping very much that he was telling the truth. 

***** 

After speaking to Kingsley – who'd accepted Harry's request for a few months off without comment – Harry went straight to Malfoy Manor. Of course, getting to the manor house – and being allowed up to the house itself by the team of Aurors surrounding it – was not the same as being let in. After knocking on the door for over ten minutes, a dirty-looking house elf opened the door a crack and told him, in no uncertain terms, that his master and mistress were not receiving visitors.

The next day, Harry tried again. The day after that, he tried again. On his fourth visit to the manor, he'd had enough. “I'm an Auror,” he told the house elf, whose face had grown increasingly panicked at each visit. “Let me in.” He could, he supposed, easily blast his way past the elf and enter without permission – the ancient blood wards had been disabled by an Auror team some time ago – but he'd have felt uncomfortable doing so.

To his surprise, the house elf bowed its head a touch, revealing a bruised, reddened neck, and opened the door to him. Harry entered, following behind the sad creature. The house was eerily quiet, the floors smeared with dust. Harry's eyes locked on to a massive hole in one wall – the rubble from it spilling out and half-blocking the corridor. As the elf darted around it, a cloud of dust rose from the pile and made Harry cough. By the time he'd clambered over the pile and caught up with the elf he was out of breath.

The elf knocked on the door they were standing in front of and, at a command that was too low for Harry to understand, opened the door and ushered Harry in.

Lucius Malfoy was sitting in an opulent study, behind a completely empty desk. Like the hallway outside, the room was thick with dust and decay. Lucius himself looked ill – his face white and his eyes bloodshot. His hand twitched, as if constantly searching for something. His wand, Harry suspected – although he knew that that was destroyed some months ago. As a wizard under house arrest, of course, he would not have been allowed a replacement.

“Mr Potter,” Lucius spat. He made to rise, and Harry wound his fingers round his wand. Pathetic as Lucius might be now, he still cut a terrifying figure.

“No need to get up,” Harry said quickly, trying not to back away. “I'm just here for some information.”

“Information?” Lucius asked. His face twisted into a sickening smile. “I am only too glad to help the saviour of the wizarding world.”

“I just need to know what you've done to – with – Draco,” Harry said, trying to sound firm. Lucius looked him in the eye and Harry did his best not to flinch or look away.

“You can—?” Lucius started. He sounded surprised. He shook his head and a tangle of white-blond hair fell over his shoulder, before he pushed it back with one hand. “Leave it alone, Mr Potter,” he said, a note of warning in his voice.

“Yes, I can remember him,” Harry said. “What the hell are you up to?”

Lucius stared at Harry. “It does not concern you,” he said, running a finger along his desk and examining the silver dust on his fingertip.

“I'll complain to—”

“Be my guest,” Lucius said, blowing the dust away. “Take your concerns to the authorities. They will think you a madman.” He looked up at Harry, and Harry was suddenly reminded of the gaze of a snake before it struck. “This is not your problem, Mr Potter.” He rose very quickly and strode towards Harry. “My house elf will show you to the door.”

“I'm going to find out what he's up to,” Harry said, taking an unwilling step backwards.

Lucius smiled. It was not a nice smile. “I wish you luck finding him,” he said.

Harry took another step backwards and found himself in the corridor. As soon as he was out of the room, Lucius shut the door in his face. Harry considered searching the manor, but he had a feeling that it wouldn't yield any helpful results. It was back to the drawing board.

He left the manor house feeling no more enlightened about Draco's whereabouts – or about what the bloody hell the Malfoys were up to – but he did feel more clear about one thing: he was going to track down Draco and wring the truth out of him if it killed him. 

***** 

Harry staggered as he landed, shaking his head to clear it and trying not to vomit. He slid Draco’s wand into his pocket next to his own and looked around. If the locating spell, (of dubious legality, but desperate times called for desperate measures), on Draco’s wand had worked, Draco himself should be close by. Harry was in a narrow shopping street – and one that was not in England, that much was clear. The street was packed tight with stalls selling brightly coloured tourist tat – keyrings nestled in amongst wide-eyed soft toys, and almost every stall had a display of wooden dolls, painted in lurid colours. Banners in an odd, foreign script fluttered in the faint breeze, accompanied by the raucous tinkle of hundreds of wind chimes.

Harry tried not to panic as a group of giggling teenage girls pushed past him. They were dressed almost like dolls themselves, in soft pinks and whites, covered in frills and hiding under enormous open parasols. He stepped back to avoid being hit in the head – he hadn’t come all this way to be knocked out by a rogue umbrella – and they all turned to look at him, whispering and giggling behind their hands, before fighting their way through the crowd.

A pair of old, wrinkled women, dressed in blue and white kimonos, made universal tuts of disapproval before turning back to their conversation. Harry’s brain latched on to the one thing he knew. Kimonos. He must be in Japan, he thought. Or perhaps China – although he wasn’t sure about that. Although, then again, he could equally be in Korea. How the hell was he supposed to find out?

Harry’s annoyance with Draco grew stronger. Trust the ferret to carry out his nefarious plots in a country where Harry couldn’t even read the street signs, let alone ask for directions. Couldn’t the little sod have hidden in – well – in England? And, not only that, unless oriental wizards favoured pink frills and parasols – which he supposed was possible, if a little unlikely – he was now in Muggle Japan, and couldn’t openly rely on magic to help him out.

Harry straightened his shoulders and vowed to kill Malfoy – once he’d found him, that was. At least, Harry thought, as he tried to – politely – push his way along the street (hoping very much that he was going the right way), Malfoy was blond. With the exception of a few exotic dye jobs, the people surrounding him were uniformly dark haired. Except, Harry suddenly thought, cursing himself, Draco could have easily dyed his hair. Or, being a wizard, he told himself sarcastically, Draco could have altered his appearance or used Polyjuice.

Harry was thinking so hard about what an idiot he was – and trying his best not to knock anyone over – that he nearly missed Malfoy, even though he was close enough to touch him, almost.

Harry ducked behind a display of stiff, traditionally dressed figurines – all clutching fans and wearing serene, painted expressions – and tried to catch his breath. His heart was, for some yet undiscovered reason, hammering in his chest. He peered around the glass cabinet, suddenly unsure whether to trust his own eyes. It was Malfoy all right, but he looked different. His hair, which had been wild and over-long last time Harry had seen him, was now long enough to hit his shoulders, but tied back in a neat, low ponytail. He was dressed, not in wizard robes, but in Muggle clothing – loose cream trousers and a neat long-sleeved shirt. And – as if that wasn't shock enough – he was wearing glasses. And sandals. Malfoy was wearing sandals.

He was sitting at a plastic table just inside a small tea-shop. One hand held a book, and the other rested on the table. There was a small cup of tea – without a handle – in front of him. Gathering up all his courage, Harry stepped out from behind the display he was hiding behind and squared his shoulders.

The movement evidently caught Malfoy's eye. His eyes widened as he caught sight of Harry and, for a moment, they stared at each other in silence. Then, to Harry's surprise, Malfoy's face twisted and he looked away, picking up the cup with a hand that shook and turning back to his book. He was biting his lip, his cheek reddening.

Harry felt a bit annoyed at this. He'd come all this way to track Malfoy down, and now the git was just going to ignore him, instead of trying to hex his head off or run away? He walked over to the table and sat down in the chair opposite Malfoy. “Well,” he said, and then stopped, not quite sure what to say next. “What are you up to?” seemed a good start.

Draco started violently, slopping tea over his trousers and standing up, pushing his chair away from him with a dull screech. “Fuck,” he said, pulling the damp fabric away from his skin. “Fuck!” Then, instead of reaching for Harry's throat, he just stood there, staring at him. His mouth was slightly ajar. He looked completely freaked out.

“What?” Harry said. Then, when Draco didn’t say anything, “what?”

Draco cleared his throat, and shut his mouth. He sat back down, picking up his book from where it had fallen on the floor. “You can see me,” he said. “Fucking hell, you can see me.”

“Of course I can,” Harry replied. He got ready to leap up and grab Malfoy if he looked like he was about to Disapparate.

“Great,” Malfoy said, his tone bitter. A strand of hair swung in front of his eyes and he pushed it behind his ear. “Just my luck that the only wizard who can see me is you.” He picked up his tea and swirled the liquid around in the cup, looking down into it, before rising suddenly. “Still, my desire to talk to a wizard isn't strong enough to conquer my incredible lack of desire to talk to you in particular. Piss off, Potter.”

Harry rose too. “Do you think I want to talk to you? I'm not a masochist, Malfoy. I just want to know what the fuck you're up to. Why can't anyone remember you but me and your parents?”

“You went to see my family?” Malfoy replied. His fists were clenched.

“Of course I did!”

Malfoy shook his head slightly and moved away from the table, shoving his chair under it. “You shouldn't have done that. Why are you here?”

“To find you, of course, you idiot,” Harry said, mirroring Malfoy's movement.

“Well, now you have, you can fuck off home, can't you?”

“I'm not going anywhere until I find out what's going on,” Harry said, stubbornly. He took a step closer to Malfoy. “Tell me, or—”

“Or what?” Malfoy laughed, wrinkling his nose. “Shall we have a duel? Handbags at dawn? By the way, Potter, the Muggles can see me, so I would appreciate it if you didn't make a scene.”

“I'm not!” Harry protested, “but I will if you don't start talking.”

Malfoy scowled, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Fine,” he said, turning his back and starting to walk off, “come on.”

Malfoy set a quick pace and Harry struggled to keep up with him. Eventually he grabbed Malfoy's shoulder. “Where are we, anyway?” he asked.

Malfoy shrugged him off, and turned to look at him with an infuriating look of pity. “Japan, Potter,” he said. “Honestly, could you be any more dense?”

“I knew that!” Harry said. It was almost a lie, but he felt indignant all the same. “I meant where in Japan.”

Malfoy snorted. “Whatever, Potter. We're in Higashiyama. Near Kiyomizudera.”

“That means nothing to me, Malfoy, and you know it,” Harry said, deciding that honesty couldn't hurt. Malfoy would mock him either way.

Malfoy said nothing for a moment, just kept on walking. “We're in Kyoto,” he said, sounding disagreeable. “It's the old capital city. We're close to Kiyomizudera. In English it means Pure Water Temple.”

“Oh,” Harry said, amazed that Malfoy had deigned to say something that wasn't insulting. “And where are we off to now?”

“The ryokan I'm staying at,” Malfoy said shortly.

“Um—”

“A hotel, Potter,” Malfoy snapped. “Merlin.”

“And we're not Apparating there because?”

“We're surrounded by Muggles, idiot. You have legs, don't you? We're nearly there, stop whinging.”

Harry didn't think he was so much whinging as making a reasonable suggestion. Why walk when, after a brief moment's concentration, you could already be there? He held his tongue with some difficulty. Once he'd got the truth out of Malfoy he could put a stop to whatever idiocy he was up to and go home. 

***** 

Ten minutes later Malfoy stopped in front of a large two-storey wooden building, sliding the door open and stepping inside. Harry followed, sliding the paper-thin door shut behind him. They were standing in a tiled area, a couple of feet square. On the left was an enormous shoe-rack, and ahead was a step – the rest of the floor on a higher level. Malfoy slipped off his sandals and, with a practised movement, stepped up onto the raised floor, sliding on a pair of white slippers.

“Shoes off, Potter,” Malfoy said when he caught Harry staring. “Get a move on. The quicker we get this over with, the sooner we can part company.”

“Um, won’t someone nick them?” Harry asked, stalling. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be alone with Malfoy in socks and slippers. It wouldn’t exactly make for a speedy getaway if he had to leg it.

Malfoy shot Harry a look that suggested that a tramp would have to be in dire straits indeed if he fixed on Harry’s trainers to steal. Harry looked down at his very battered Nikes and supposed Malfoy had a point, so he bent down and managed – with a total lack of grace – to tug his shoes off and mount the step without placing his socked feet on the sunken floor. “Isn’t this a bit, you know, over the top?” he mumbled, not expecting Malfoy to reply.

Malfoy shrugged, his fingers hooked into his trouser pockets. “It’s hygienic,” he said. Then, evidently realizing he hadn’t been nearly rude enough, added, “and traditional. Not that a Gryffindor would have any use for tradition, I expect.” He said the word Gryffindor the same way as one would say dead, oozing slug.

Harry had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from replying. Wrapping his fingers around his wand in his pocket – at least, it felt like his wand rather than Malfoy’s, which nestled up against the back of his hand – he followed Malfoy, who’d already turned and was walking away.

Malfoy unlocked the door to his room and pushed it open, sliding his feet out of his slippers and leaving them just outside the door. Harry reluctantly did the same, wishing he’d chosen a pair of socks which were less graying, and trying to slide his left sock round his foot a bit to hide the hole at the toe. The flooring was scratchy and odd underfoot, a kind of fibrous matting, and the room looked bizarre – no bed, a low table with barely room to get your legs under and cushions instead of chairs. On one side of the table was a heap of junk, piled in a precarious tower, and up a corner was a pile of clothes and a large suitcase.

Malfoy scowled when he saw Harry looking around. “Sit down, Potter,” he snapped, motioning to a cushion on one side of the table. “Keep your thoughts to yourself.”

Harry did as he was told, sitting cross legged on the cushion and trying not to snap either his own or Malfoy’s wand in his pocket. Or, come to think of it, gouge a chunk out of his own thigh. Malfoy sat down opposite, rather more gracefully than Harry had done, and fiddled with the glasses he was wearing. Why the hell was he wearing those, Harry wondered. If it was a disguise then it was a pretty crap one. He didn’t look all that different. A touch older – more serious, perhaps – but his features were as sharp and delicate as ever.

“Get a move on, then,” Harry said when Malfoy failed to say anything. If all went well he could extract a confession from the ferret, drag him back to England and be home in time for dinner. Travelling wasn’t something that held much excitement for him. At least, he’d never considered it before. And if he did travel, he thought, he’d prefer to have a guidebook on him, and a spare pair of boxers, at the very least. It dawned on him that he hadn’t thought this expedition through very well.

Malfoy bent down and rummaged in the pile beside the table, which collapsed and spilled across the floor. He scowled, but retrieved a battered pack of cards, secured with a rubber band.

“I didn’t come here to play Exploding Snap,” Harry said sarcastically.

“Ha ha,” Malfoy said, not looking at Harry. He tugged off the rubber band and shuffled the cards, placing them in the middle of the table. “They’re Tarot cards. Read my fortune.”

“Excuse me?” Harry said. “Now you’re mistaking me for Trelawny.”

Malfoy wrinkled his nose. “You wanted me to explain myself, didn’t you? This is it. Read my fortune.”

“Um, how?”

“Pick five cards and lay them out and then we’ll see.”

Harry – wondering if Malfoy had gone completely mad – did as asked. The first card showed a grinning skeleton, carrying a scythe. Death. He looked up at Malfoy. Malfoy’s face was stiff and he had his arms folded.

“And the next one, Potter.”

Harry picked another from the centre of the pack and turned it over. It was an identical Death card. He raised an eyebrow at Malfoy, who was pressing his lips so tightly together they were white, and drew another card. It was the Death card. “Why are all the cards in this pack the same?” Harry asked. Draco said nothing. Harry turned the pack in his hands over. They seemed to be all different kinds. Maybe it was a printing error. He shuffled them once more for good measure and picked another card. It was the Death card. Feeling rather out of sorts he picked the last card of the five. It was the Death card.

“This is ridiculous,” Harry said. He picked out several more cards at random, turning them over as he did so, and then a few more. When two dozen skeletons grinned up at him he stopped. “Whatever trick this is, it isn’t funny. What’s going on, Malfoy?”

Malfoy shoved the cards off the table and handed Harry a crystal ball. “Look in it.”

“I never could see anything in these in Divination,” Harry grumbled, but stared down into the misty inside of the ball. To his surprise and horror the mists cleared, showing an image of a grave. The name clearly marked on the grave was that of Draco Malfoy.

“I don’t get it,” Harry said, shaking his head and trying to clear the image from his mind.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Potter,” Malfoy snarled. “How dense are you?” He picked up a teapot and a cup from the floor and poured a cup. “It’s cold, but it’ll have to do.” He slid it towards Harry, refusing to meet his eye.

Harry hoped the stuff wasn’t poisoned and slurped it down. It was just cold tea. Disgusting, but refreshing in the humid heat. He peered into the tea grounds at the bottom of the cup, expecting to see – well, to see tea grounds. A skull grinned up at him, encircled in a border of curly writing. The writing spelt out the name Draco Malfoy.

“Shall we try anything else?” Malfoy interrupted. “We’ve still got Arithmancy and I-Ching to go, and I’ve got a Ouija board and a Magic 8 ball hanging around somewhere.”

“I… I don’t understand,” Harry stammered, looking up at Malfoy. Malfoy looked angry, his fists curled into balls and his breathing sharp.

“I’m dead, Potter,” Malfoy snapped. “For fuck’s sake. I’m dead, okay?”

“Er, right,” Harry said. He stared, probably looking a bit stupid, he thought, at Malfoy. “You’re breathing and moving quite a lot for a corpse.”

Malfoy’s lips moved into a sneer. “Then perhaps you could kindly explain why only my parents – and apparently you – can see me, and why all forms of Divination, of both Muggle and Wizarding origin, show me as deceased?”

Harry stared at him. His brain didn’t come up with an answer. He swallowed hard. Malfoy certainly didn’t look dead. He didn’t sound dead either. The whole thing was insane.

“No?” Malfoy said. His face had gone an angry red colour, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. “I didn’t think you’d be able to help. You never were the brains of the outfit, Potter, so why don’t you toddle back to Granger and leave me in peace.”

“I’m here to help you,” Harry said. He hadn’t intended to sound quite so pitying, but the words came out slick with sympathy.

“You have no obligations to me, Potter,” Malfoy shouted, scrambling to his feet.

Harry thought he’d better do the same, glad that the table was between them. Malfoy looked like he was ready to punch something – or someone – his hands balled into fists by his side.

“Fuck off, will you?” Malfoy yelled, after Harry had stared at him for a few frozen seconds.

Harry thought about that. There wasn’t much to be gained by hanging about with an infuriated Malfoy. Plus, he wondered, if Malfoy were dead, who knew what secret powers he now had? He might have the strength of ten men, maybe, or the ability to grow another head and shoot venom from his nostrils.

“FUCK OFF!” Malfoy yelled again, taking a menacing step closer to Harry and narrowly avoiding falling over the table.

“Fine,” Harry said. He hurriedly slid out of the room, eyeing the slippers with distaste and choosing to pad down the hallway in his socked feet.

It took him a good ten minutes to find his shoes but, to his surprise, Malfoy didn’t come out to throw a parting hex. It was peculiar, that’s what it was. He’d come to solve a mystery and yes, he’d found Malfoy alright, but the mystery wasn’t nearly solved. Sliding on his trainers he considered his next move. Home, he thought. Yes, home. To fetch a guidebook to wizarding Japan – and some clean underwear. This was evidently going to take longer than he’d thought. 

***** 

A week later, Harry was beginning to wish that he’d never heard of Draco Malfoy himself. Quite frankly, the boy was a pain, and this whole sorry situation was getting more complicated by the hour – and he hadn’t even seen Malfoy again. Determined not to turn to Hermione for help – the barb from Malfoy had irritated him more than he cared to admit – he’d found himself a room in a reassuringly Western hotel in Kyoto, practised a Translating Spell until it worked satisfactorily and Apparated himself to the magical centre of the city. Kyoto was ancient and felt unbelievably foreign to Harry. The shops bulged with odd ingredients and items: twisted, dried fragments of animals he’d always thought were mythical and strange, moving figurines that peeped out at him and pulled faces. The people didn’t dress like wizards either. He’d thought that every wizarding culture wore robes – but the witches and wizards wore embroidered, beautiful kimonos and wooden sandals. They didn’t stare at him as he passed, but he felt their eyes hot on his back as he walked among them. They were uniformly polite – and uniformly distant. He felt like there was an invisible cultural wall between them. They didn’t trust him, this white (although now patched with red, prickly heat and peeling sunburned skin) foreigner in shorts and baggy t-shirts – and he didn’t know what exactly he was looking for.

Harry was looking for something, he knew that much. Something that would explain what had happened to Malfoy. There must be some reason why he was sulking in Japan, rather than being invisible in the comfort of Malfoy Manor. He only wished he knew what it was.

Japan struck him as odd. He didn’t like the constant, moist heat, and he didn’t like the food – what he’d tried of it. Every food stall he passed seemed to proudly display some form of thing with eyes – which looked at him as he passed. A bag of what he thought were crisps turned out to be tiny, dried fishes complete with eyes. An iced lolly didn’t have raspberries – they were red aduki beans. Not unpleasant but not nice either, an experience he didn’t want to repeat. Even McDonalds had a weird menu, his burger came smeared with something called wasabi – an unidentifiable paste that was hotter on the tongue than it had any right to be.

One day he was walking the streets, hoping for inspiration, when he was stopped by a young-ish man. His hair was so long it hit his backside. He smiled at Harry. “You look lost,” he said, in good, but accented, English. “I have seen you pass by my tea-shop many times each day. Come inside and rest yourself.”

Harry knew it was just salesmanship, this man’s friendliness, but he had barely spoken to anyone for a week, so he nodded.

“Thank you,” he said as the man guided him to a table and placed a cup of steaming green tea in front of him, pulling up a chair and sitting down himself.

“You are welcome,” the man said, inclining his head. His long hair swung forwards across his shoulders, and he tucked it behind his ears with a smile. “It is – how you say? – on the house.”

“If you’re sure,” Harry said, startled.

“I wish to ask you something,” the man said. “Is there a reason you have come to visit our city?”

Harry wondered how much he should say.

“You are the famous Auror, Potter San,” the man said. “And we, the wizards of Kyoto, have noticed some strange things in our city over the last months – strange things that have been getting worse.” He blew over the surface of his cup of tea. “Strange things, dangerous things, and a visit from Harry Potter.” He took a sip and looked up at Harry, his expression quiet and serious. “Are these things connected? That is what we wish to know.”

“What sort of strange things?” Harry asked, feeling uncomfortable. He hadn’t realised that everyone here had recognised him. Had… watched him walk up and down like an idiot, knowing who he was and not saying anything.

“Here in Kyoto, in Japan, we experience regular earthquakes. The earth moves, and our ancient elders tell us that the rolling of the earth is a reminder that the walls between this world and the next are thin indeed. In fact, our magical tradition tells us that the two are finely interconnected – the earth and the barrier between life and death.” He put down his mug and meshed his fingers together, resting his hands on the table top.

“Oh,” Harry said. “That’s interesting?”

The man smiled slightly. “You do not see how this affects you, yes?”

Harry nodded.

“The earthquakes come frequently – one or two a month – and we are used to that. But over the last few months they have begun to increase in our city: in our city alone. In the last month alone there were over twenty small quakes.” He waved a hand, and pushed it through his hair. “And we have sensed a new magic in the area. A strong, terrible one. Something – or someone, someone we cannot discover – is disturbing the balance. We desire it gone, whether it be object, animal or human being.”

Harry had a horrible feeling that he knew exactly what – or who – was causing the earthquakes. Draco sodding Malfoy. Was it not enough that he was apparently dead, without him being earthquake boy as well? Couldn’t he let Harry ever have any peace?

“I’ll see what I can do,” Harry said.

The man smiled and took another sip of tea. “I must see to my customers now,” he said, rising. “Good day to you.”

Harry finished his tea – it was fragrant and strong, and he thought that, on the whole, he preferred ordinary tea with milk and sugar – and left the shop. Malfoy had held out on him, the git, and he had some serious explaining to do.

 

***** 

Harry sat in the corridor outside Malfoy’s room and examined the contents of the plastic bag resting by his side. He couldn’t say for sure why he’d bought presents for Malfoy. Or, rather, not presents but more like bribes. Malfoy hadn’t been thrilled to see him last time they met, and now Harry knew he was an earthquake-causing, dead boy, he was eager not to provoke him in case the world exploded. It was a small chance, but it wasn’t one worth taking.

“You,” Malfoy said, appearing at the far end of the corridor. He was wearing a loose kimono, more like a dressing gown than an outdoor garment. “What do you want?”

“Where’ve you been?” Harry asked.

Malfoy stared at him. “Not that it is any of your concern, Potter, but I have been sitting in the private garden. What do you want, and how much will it take to get rid of you?”

“Um,” Harry said, getting up and trying to fight the pins and needles in his feet. “I bought you these.”

Malfoy strode down the corridor and took the plastic bag from Harry’s hands. He rummaged through it and an incredulous expression slid over his face. “Cheap sake and – what is this?” He waved a small, brightly-coloured packet illustrated with a drawing of a grinning cartoon animal.

“Pocky,” Harry said. “Sweets,” he elaborated, when Malfoy’s expression didn’t change.

“You brought me gutrot and toothrot?” Malfoy said, shoving the bag back at Harry. “How kind.”

“I thought we could talk,” Harry said. “There’s some things you haven’t explained.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Malfoy said. He pushed past Harry and unlocked the door to his room. “All the cheap booze in the world won’t make me.”

“Could be worse,” Harry said, suppressing a grin. “I could have brought you McDonalds.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Good God, Potter, you’re unbelievable. Tell me you haven’t actually come to Japan and eaten in an inferior Muggle burger bar?”

Harry laughed. “Yep. I had a Filet O’Fish only yesterday. Might have another one today, in fact, with extra fries.”

Malfoy pulled a face and then narrowed his eyes. “It would be inhumane to allow even you to eat for another night in that place.”

“It would?” Harry said. Then, “Oh, I mean, it would.” He nodded and tried to look serious.

“Seriously against my better judgment I will take you to dinner tonight,” Malfoy said. He looked like he couldn’t quite believe the words coming out of his mouth. Harry wasn’t sure he believed the words either. They did seem unlikely. Then he remembered all the odd foods he’d seen – and read about in his guidebook – and thought he knew what Malfoy was up to. Still, he wouldn’t get a better opportunity to talk to Malfoy about this earthquake business, and if they were in a Muggle restaurant then the worst he could expect would be a fork in the eye. Or, shit, he suddenly remembered, a chopstick. He wondered if there was a spell that would suddenly make him a chopstick pro.

There was a click and Harry realised that Malfoy had shut the door in his face. He knocked loudly, and the door opened a crack. Malfoy’s shoulders were bare. “I’m getting dressed,” he said. “What now?”

Harry tried not to stare. Malfoy’s skin was so pale and smooth, his chest hairless like a girl’s. “Er, nothing,” he said, and shoved the plastic bag at Malfoy. “Dessert?” he said.

Malfoy rolled his eyes but took the bag, between finger and thumb, as if it smelt. “Fine, Potter. Now wait like a good dog – I mean, boy.”

Harry bit his tongue and waited.  

***** 

Harry had had a crafty peek at the guidebook while Malfoy was getting changed but, when Malfoy emerged, his litany of fugu (a potentially deadly fish), shiokara (fermented fish guts) and a dozen other things to avoid, left his head along with his sanity.

Malfoy was dressed in a traditional Japanese kimono, a deep green colour with swirls of embroidery. His hair was loose and fell in white-blond strands across his shoulders. He looked… Well. Harry couldn’t decide what he looked like, but it wasn’t the pointy-faced boy he’d been at school with, that was for sure.

Malfoy flushed and scowled under Harry’s gaze. “Stop gawping, Potter,” he said, wrapping his arms around himself. If Harry didn’t know better he’d have said Malfoy was nervous – or embarrassed, at the very least. “It’s impolite.”

“I just,” Harry started. He cleared his throat. “I like it,” he offered.

Malfoy’s frowned. “Don’t try to be sarcastic, Potter,” he said, sweeping down the corridor. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“I wasn’t!” Harry protested, but he wasn’t sure that Malfoy was listening. He would have said it again, a bit louder, but he had to keep all his breath for chasing after Malfoy, who could move surprisingly fast in what was basically a dress.

When they reached the restaurant which was, thankfully, air conditioned, Harry was out of breath and sheened with sweat. Malfoy spoke quietly to the waitress, who bobbed and showed them to a raised platform. The floor was made of the same matting that Harry had seen in Malfoy’s hotel bedroom. Once again, Malfoy slid off his shoes, and Harry did the same. He noticed that Malfoy’s feet were very small. It was endearing, in an odd way.

“I didn’t know you spoke Japanese,” he said to Malfoy, wanting to break the silence. Malfoy looked at him like he was an idiot.

“I spoke English,” Malfoy said. “The waitress speaks English too. It might do you some good to learn to speak it yourself.”

Harry felt like a bit of a tit. He stared down at the table. “No menu?” he said, for want of anything better.

“I’ve ordered,” Malfoy said. Then he laughed, although it was more of a snort than a laugh. “Don’t worry, Potty, I won’t poison you. We’ll be eating the same thing.”

Harry decided not to say anything else. He’d get Malfoy drunk, that’s what he’d do. He’d get dead boy drunk and then he’d have the truth out of him. First he just had to get through some bizarre food. He could do it. He just wished he could remember the name of that poisonous fish he’d read about, just in case.  

***** 

“Mother tried to get her to go away, but the old bitch was having none of it,” Draco said, a bit too loudly. He was drunk – too drunk, Harry thought, who was heading the same way himself. He’d lost the thread of Malfoy’s story, and he thought it was something important.

“Who’re we talking about?” he managed, although his tongue felt heavy and thick in his mouth. He hoped it was the effect of too much sake, rather than a slow-acting poisonous fish.

“Trelawny,” Malfoy said. He waved his arms about like a windmill. “So, her face goes all stupid and glassy, and she starts speaking all ‘wooooooo’.”

“You what?” Harry said.

“You know,” Malfoy said. “A per— A praph— A prophecy. She said that, get this, the one who cannot be found is the only one who can defeat the one who cannot be named when he rises again.”

Harry suddenly felt very, very sober. “Say that again?”

“I don’t think I can,” Malfoy said, sounding forlorn. His head lurched forward and he caught himself just in time, swaying where he sat.

Harry wished he had a Sobering Potion on him, but he didn’t, so he pushed a glass of water towards Malfoy, who glugged it down, water dripping down his chin.

“Malfoy, Voldemort is dead,” Harry said, trying to sound very firm. “He’s not rising again.”

Malfoy laughed hysterically. “You really are an idiot, aren’t you? Do you think he’d really die without leaving a big, fuck-off evil legacy? How lame do you think he was? Real life isn’t like one of those awful Muggle novels, where the wicked are vanquished and the good live happily ever after with their awful offspring cluttering up the place. Get real.” He drank deeply. “Either he’s coming back, or he’s left an evil whatsit to carry on his work. Either way, I’m apparently dead so it’s not looking too brilliant for me either way, wouldn’t you say?” He stared down into his glass. “And now I’m talking to you. Fuck. I really must be desperate.”

Harry sat there, his brain whirring. A Terrible Thought had occurred to him. “When I died—” he said.

“You died too,” Draco said, laughing so hard his eyes watered. “You died too! Zombie Potter and his nemesis, zombie Draco.” His laughter died off into something that was half-hiccups, half-sobs.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry said, wishing they’d left alcohol off the menu that night. “I was in King’s Cross. Well, sort of King’s Cross. There was a… thing.”

Malfoy managed to sit up very straight. His face was warm and pink and his hair dishevelled. “A thing?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Kind of like a baby. It was… crying. Dumbledore said it was the—” he thought hard but he couldn’t remember exactly what Dumbledore had said. “It was what was left of Voldemort. The rest of his soul, I think.”

“And you chose to come back from that place,” Malfoy said. His mouth curled into a sneer. “You chose to come back and you could come back. You never thought to mention that there was still a part of the Dark Lord there?”

“Er, no,” Harry admitted. He fiddled with his glass. “It didn’t seem important at the time.”

“It didn’t seem important?” Malfoy said, his voice rising in tone until it was practically a squeak. “It didn’t seem important?”

Harry looked at him in alarm. “Calm down, Malfoy,” he said, half-stretching a hand towards him.

“The Dark Lord could come through from that – that limbo place at any moment, and you expect me to be calm? Do you remember what the prophecy said, Potter? I’m the only one who can defeat him. Except, wait a minute, now I can’t defeat him, because I’m not ‘the one that cannot be found’ any more, am I? You found me. Nice work, Potty. We’re all completely fucked.” He was babbling now, his face a mask of terror, breathing hard, all self-control lost.

Harry reached out to hold his hand – why, he couldn’t quite say, because this was Malfoy, and Malfoy certainly wouldn’t appreciate having his hand held, would he? – but there was a noise. It was a loud, rumbling noise as if the very earth was having a grumble. The room jolted to the side, and Harry knew with a sudden terror what it was. Earthquake boy in action. There was the sound of a scream, a crashing noise and the world narrowed to a pinhole and went black. 

2 

“Hold still, will you, Harry,” Malfoy said. His voice was indistinct and muffled.

Harry couldn’t move. There was something heavy on his legs and he couldn’t move, so he decided to have a jolly good go.

“Merlin, Harry, please stay still. You’ll crush us both to death if you don’t,” Malfoy said.

Harry thought about that. Malfoy had called him Harry. A thrill of worry ran through him – accompanied by the memory of what had happened. “You!” he said. He opened his eyes. He could see, just about. His glasses were cracked, but at least he could see. “You!”

“Yes, Potter, it’s me,” Malfoy said, and Harry felt a rush of relief. He couldn’t be that badly injured if Malfoy was being sarcastic already.

“This is your fault,” Harry said. He struggled to move.

“Stay still!” Malfoy snapped. “You might have broken something. I’d Apparate you out of here, but I fucking can’t, okay?”

Harry lay still, wondering what that meant. Malfoy hadn’t lost his magic, had he? He seemed to have gained magic, if anything. “What do you mean?”

Malfoy made a frustrated noise and Harry felt something shift over his legs. Malfoy was hauling bits of wood off him. From the looks of it, part of the paper-thin wooden roof had landed on him. He could hear sirens and the sound of someone crying faintly, some distance away.

“Since you just nearly got me killed, I think you owe me an explanation,” Harry said. He squinted at Malfoy. Malfoy’s face was streaked with dirt, and his kimono was ripped and blackened.

“Shut up,” Malfoy said.

“No.”

Malfoy pulled a face. “Whatever. Okay, fine. I’ll show you. Once I’ve got you out of here.”

Harry struggled to sit up and Malfoy made a horrified noise. Harry stretched experimentally, but nothing hurt too badly. He expected he’d have some brilliant bruises, but he didn’t think he’d sustained any serious injury. He stood up, Malfoy rushing to help him, which was unexpected but welcome. His legs felt wobbly. He grasped Malfoy’s arm.

“What are you doing?” Malfoy asked.

“Side-along Apparition,” Harry said, and turned, dragging Malfoy with him. They landed in Malfoy’s hotel room and Harry’s legs decided they didn’t fancy standing up any longer, depositing him on the floor.

Malfoy sat down in front of him. He was a shadow of the sophisticated person he’d been earlier this evening, and Harry felt a rush of – something. He couldn’t describe it, this feeling that made him want to draw Malfoy into his arms and just sit there, holding him. It was screwed up, that’s what it was, but he ached to do it.

Malfoy didn’t look so sharp and spiteful right now. He was dirty and tired and he didn’t do what Harry expected – refuse to tell him anything – he just spoke, as honest and straightforward as any Gryffindor. “I can’t use a wand,” he said, staring at his feet. “Trelawny didn’t just say the prophecy, she did something to me. She – she touched my forehead with her wand. I tried to stop her but it was too late. My magic is uncontrollable. I can’t even see properly, now. The eyesight repairing spell my mother cast on me as a baby has failed.” He choked and screwed his eyes tight shut for a moment. “Basically, Potter, everything is fucked up and now I can’t even live amongst Muggles because I’m a danger to everyone.” He stood up and left the room, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

In a couple of minutes he was back. “Come on, Potter,” he said, holding out his hand.

Harry wondered if he was being chucked out, just a few minutes after he’d nearly been killed. He seized Malfoy’s hand. It was cold and smooth in his own. He stood up with difficulty and limped after Malfoy.

“It’s a communal bathroom, but the owner says you can have full use for the next half an hour,” Malfoy said, opening the door and half-pushing Harry in. He picked up a loose kimono style robe and towel and shoved it at Harry. Harry stared at him, but Malfoy wasn’t looking at his face. “It’s a Japanese style bathroom. You use the shower to get clean, then you can soak in the hot bath,” Malfoy said. “When I say hot, I mean hot. Be careful.”

“Oh. Right,” Harry said, amazed that Malfoy was offering a hot bath rather than trying to kick him out. It was almost like he was human, rather than a git in human form.

Malfoy said nothing, just left the room and shut the door behind him.

Harry showered quickly and attempted to get into the hottest bath he’d ever had. It took him five full minutes to lower himself in, but his aching limbs thanked him for it – even though they turned the colour of a cooked lobster.

When he limped back to Malfoy’s room Malfoy was tugging mattresses and sheets out of a wardrobe hidden in the wall. He shot Harry a quick look, but turned away when Harry opened his mouth. “It’s a futon, Potter,” Malfoy said, making one up with the skill of someone who has owned a house elf all his life. “You can sleep in that one.” He then made up another bed, as far away across the room as was possible. He left the room and Harry got into bed, robe and all.

When Malfoy returned, dressed in a similar robe, his hair wet, Harry was nearly asleep. “Thank you, Draco,” he said, snuggling into the covers. The air-con was on full and the room had a slight chill.

Malfoy didn’t say anything, just shut out the light. Then, after a few minutes of silence, Harry thought he heard Malfoy say sorry, but he couldn’t be sure. And in a few more minutes he was asleep.  

***** 

When Harry woke up, he sniffed. There was a smell of food in the room. It was a nice smell, but not a breakfast smell. His head ached and he opened his eyes with great reluctance.

“Breakfast is here,” Malfoy said. Harry fumbled for his glasses and peered at Malfoy. He was sitting up in bed, his hair a mess. He looked a state.

Harry Accio-ed his wand and fixed the crack in his glasses, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. “Doesn’t smell like breakfast.”

“It’s traditional Japanese,” Malfoy replied. “Rice, fish, miso soup and pickles.”

Harry stared at the table, feeling his stomach revolt at the idea. “How about we eat the Pocky instead?” he suggested. Chocolate snacks sounded easier on the stomach after a full night of drinking. He really wasn’t up to the effort it would take to eat a fish – with the skin on, and full of bones – with a pair of chopsticks. He wished he was back in England, where they used sensible things like forks.

Malfoy snorted but, after a moment, crawled out of his futon and scrabbled in a heap for the Pocky, pulling some out for himself and chucking the packet over at Harry. They nibbled in silence for a while.

“It was really shit,” Malfoy said, “at first.”

“What was?” Harry asked.

Malfoy rolled his eyes and leaned back against the wall. “What do you think?” He bit at a stick of Pocky. “My parents were convinced they could fix it. They could both see me, you see, so they did all the research they could.” He was silent for a moment. “Of course, they didn’t find anything. Then they decided I should be trained in Arithmancy.”

“Divination by numbers? What good is that?”

Malfoy shrugged. “A skilled Arithmancer can bend reality – not just reading his fortune but altering it. As you can tell, that didn’t work either. I can do it – sort of – but whenever I try, it doesn’t fix anything.”

“Are you really dead?” Harry asked. He couldn’t help it. The question was constantly running thorugh his mind, like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

Malfoy snorted. “Of course not. But wizarding reality thinks I am, so I may as well be.”

“Do you think that’s what the earthquakes are for?” Harry asked, fiddling with the sheets covering him. “Trying to, you know, correct things? You’re pretty solid for someone who’s dead.”

Malfoy looked over at him. “You thought that up all on your own?” he said. He sounded amused. “You don’t have Granger hidden in here, do you? That was almost perceptive, Potter. Well done.”

“Ha ha,” Harry said. “Very funny.” He scratched his head and stretched widely. His back ached, but not so bad he wouldn’t be able to move about normally. “So, what do we do next?”

“We?” Malfoy asked. His jaw went slack and his mouth gaped open for a moment, before he shut it tight.

“Yes,” Harry said, not understanding for a moment.

“I do not require saving, Potter,” Malfoy said, very stiffly.

“No, but you need a – a – oh, fuck it, you need a friend.”

“We are not friends,” Malfoy said.

“Yeah, I get that. But right now I’m the only person you’ve got,” Harry said. For a Slytherin, with all their supposed cunning and intelligence, Malfoy was acting remarkably stupidly, Harry thought.

Malfoy evidently came to a decision. “You can help,” he said, finally. “But you’re wasting your time. There’s nothing that can be done.”

“We’ll see about that,” Harry said. He wanted to get up but he wasn’t entirely sure where his clothes were. “I’m on your side now.”

Malfoy said something. Harry couldn’t quite hear what it was, but it could have been a faint Merlin help me. He chose to ignore it.  

***** 

The next week was one of the strangest of Harry’s life. He’d always had a strong sense of who Draco Malfoy was: a Slytherin, a Malfoy, a pureblood aristocrat. He was objectionable, weak-willed and unpleasant. But, the more time he spent in Malfoy’s company, the more he realised not only that he didn’t know the first thing about Malfoy – but that he hadn’t exactly showed Malfoy his best side either. It was hard, after everything that had happened, to put aside old prejudices. He couldn’t stop himself from feeling – very strongly – that Malfoy was a git. Malfoy was a git – but he was a thin, thoughtful, spiteful, intelligent, humorous git. He knew more about wizarding history than Hermione, and that was saying something, and after a few days he started telling Harry stuff without that awful, condescending tone he usually had. He was interesting, and he interested Harry. It was all a bit bizarre.

Harry had known, objectively, that life for Malfoy during the period Voldemort had lived in his home had been hard. He’d never really thought about it all that much though. He thought about it now. He didn’t have pity for Malfoy, he couldn’t, but he thought he understood things better.

Living, being with Malfoy, was hard – he didn’t know what they were looking for, or what they were doing even – but it was good, in a funny way. He hadn’t realised quite how strongly he’d wanted an explanation, to know why the Slytherins hadn’t stayed to fight, when it was their world too that Voldemort wanted to crush and spoil. Malfoy, who’d never really learned how to hide his feelings very well, showed him – even when he wasn’t saying anything. And every evening, when the lights were out, they talked – sometimes at length – and Harry thought he’d never felt so confused, so frightened and so at home in all his life. 

***** 

“Have you ever been to that temple?” Harry asked drowsily.

“What temple?” Malfoy – who Harry now, bizarrely, thought of as Draco – asked.

“We were near it when I arrived,” Harry replied. “That water temple place.”

Draco was silent for a while, and all Harry could hear was his breathing, quiet and steady. “I went that once,” he replied, “before I saw you.”

“Do you think we should go there?” Harry asked. “Any clues?”

Draco snorted. “No, Potter, no clues.” He was quiet for such a long time that Harry had nearly fallen asleep, but then he spoke. “Just beyond the temple is Jishu Shrine. In front of the shrine itself are two stones, ten metres apart. If you close your eyes and manage to walk from one stone to another without falling, or cheating, you will find your true love.”

Harry said nothing, but he curled his fingers around his top sheet very tight. “And did you?”

“Walk from stone to stone, or find my true love?” Draco asked. He sounded very bitter. “Neither, Potter. I walked between the rocks with my eyes open. There’s a cliff edge to one side of the stones. I’m not an idiot.”

“Doesn’t it have a barrier?”

“Of course it does,” Draco snapped, “but that’s not really the point.”

“Are – are you okay?” Harry asked.

Draco seemed to ignore him. “The god of the Shrine is Okuninushi. Japanese legend has it that a rabbit who got his own way all the time by tricking others, was forced to peel off its own skin. Okuninushi healed it and made it mend its ways.” He took an audible breath. “Romantic, isn’t it?”

Harry realised after a few tense, awful minutes that Draco was crying. At least, he thought he was crying. It was dark and there was no real way of telling, but his breathing was erratic and he kept making little gasping noises. He wondered what he should do. He knew what he wanted to do, but there was the risk that, if he did it, Draco would tear his head off.

Still, he couldn’t just go to sleep without knowing for sure. He slid out of bed and shuffled across the floor until he hit what felt like Draco’s futon, rather than the table at the centre of the room. He stretched out and found himself touching bare flesh.

“What?” Draco managed. He was definitely crying, Harry thought.

“Shut up,” Harry said, hoping that anger would stop Draco from making that heartbreaking noise. “Sit up, will you?”

“Why?”

Harry wanted to say ‘so I can give you a hug’, but he wasn’t sure if that would go down well. Luckily, the warm skin under his hand shifted and he realised that Draco had actually done as asked. Harry wasn’t sure which way Draco was facing, but he had a guess, and wrapped his arms around him.

Harry hadn’t expected Draco to be topless, all warm bare skin and so thin he could feel the bones through him. He also hadn’t expected him to hug back.

Draco made a kind of hiccoughing noise and shifted in Harry’s arms, his hair falling across Harry’s body. He pressed the side of his face against Harry’s own, and Harry could feel the wetness on his cheek. Draco’s arms came up and circled Harry, his palms pressing loosely on his back. For a while they just sat there in silence – only it wasn’t silence, because Draco was sobbing, and they weren’t just sitting there, because Harry was rubbing soothing circles on Draco’s back. It was, Harry thought, suppressing a shocked laugh, rather a contrast to the last time he’d caught Draco crying. Back then, when he’d looked at Draco, all he’d seen was someone on Voldemort’s side – someone his own age who should’ve known better. Draco should’ve known better, he thought, as they sat in each other’s arms, and Harry strongly suspected that he had done. Harry wondered what he would have done in Draco’s position, brought up to believe in a load of shit and his parents’ lives at stake if he failed to follow through.

Harry shifted and his back twinged. “Ow,” he said.

Malfoy let go as suddenly as if he’d been burned, going rigid.

“It’s just my back,” Harry said helplessly. He yawned and an idea that was close to insanity came to him. “Shift over.”

Draco didn’t say anything, but he moved and Harry crawled onto the futon beside him. It was a generous size, thank Merlin. Harry lay down and tugged Draco down beside him, throwing an arm around him. Then he laughed. “Your hair’s tickling my nose,” he said, reaching up to brush it out of the way.

“No reason to feed it to me, Potter,” Draco said, sounding rather muffled, like he had a heavy cold.

“Sorry,” Harry said, and felt carefully in the dark for Draco’s face, pushing his hair out of his face and smoothing it down. It felt very soft and silky, and Harry had run his fingers through it before it occurred to him that that probably wasn’t a very good idea. Draco held himself very still. Hopefully, Harry thought, for fear that Harry would poke his eye out with a finger, rather than with repressed rage. He didn’t fancy another earthquake experience – not in a two-storey building with their room on the ground floor. There had been quakes throughout the past week, but they’d been tiny ones, making the floor shift beneath them, but not with enough force to knock things off shelves – or send buildings tumbling down.

“Don’t take this as a compliment, Potter,” Draco said suddenly. He sounded full of mock bravado, but the sniffs gave the lie to his words. “I would have – you know – in front of anyone who happened to be around just then.”

“Liar,” Harry said. He trailed his hand over Draco’s shoulder and left it there. Draco shivered under his touch, and Harry swallowed hard.

“Although,” Draco said, “you’re enough to drive anyone to tears.”

“Hey, that’s hardly fair,” Harry said, grinning in Draco’s direction.

Draco snorted. “Life is rarely fair, Potter.” His breathing was coming slower now and he sounded less distressed. “If you wriggle in your sleep I’ll kick you,” he said. “Goodnight.” He turned his back on Harry and proceeded to go to sleep. At least, he sounded asleep, Harry thought after a good half an hour. He still couldn’t believe he was sharing a bed – even if it was nothing more than a glorified mattress on the floor – with Draco. Not only that, he’d practically been invited to. It made it a bit hard to fall asleep.

When he woke up, feeling absolutely knackered, he opened his eyes to see Malfoy – fully dressed – sitting up at the table, reading a book. Malfoy meet his gaze briefly and said something sarcastic about people lying in bed all day, but his tone lacked its usual sting and a dull red suffused his cheeks.

The rest of the day, whenever Harry looked at Draco, he thought you cried in front of me. Oddly, the knowledge didn’t make him feel smug or superior. It felt intimate.

He rather liked it. 

***** 

By the end of the next week – a week during which Draco had behaved oddly, swinging wildly between sarcastic rudeness and blushing confusion – Harry was clear on only one thing: his feelings for Draco were not what they used to be. Rather the… opposite.

During the day they didn't do much but argue, if truth be told. Particularly about whether they should return to England. Harry couldn't see the point of staying in Japan. Draco had admitted that he'd only come to Kyoto on a whim – “to sulk” Harry had suggested, and Draco had gone red with anger but only denied it in the most cursory of ways. So Harry pushed the issue, until Draco – head tilted back and chin held very high – had told him that he couldn't bear to be in the same country as Malfoy Manor, let alone the same city. His parents had fussed over him so much that his mother had all but had a nervous breakdown. He'd left for her mental health – and for his own, because, quite frankly, memories of that man seeped into every room, every wall, of his childhood home and he couldn't take it any more. So would Harry kindly stop going on about it? Please?

It was the please that did it. Draco never said please. And Harry supposed that, since they had no real idea how to fix Draco or how to stop Voldemort from rising – if that was what he was planning on doing – they might as well be confused in Japan as in England. He'd suggested that they owl Hermione, but Draco had given him such a scornful look that he didn't dare ask again.

If they argued by day, however, by night it was a different story. By night they talked. The night after Draco had broken down, he'd tugged the futons out of the cupboard as usual and made them up. But not as usual – at opposite ends of the room. This time they lay side by side, barely an inch between them. Harry wasn’t sure whether he should say something – he didn't object, but he wanted to know what exactly Draco meant by it. His stomach curled up in knots at the sight – but not in a bad way, not really.

“I can't be arsed to drag them apart,” Draco said, his nose in the air. He sounded very disagreeable. “Go ahead and move yours if you want.”

Harry slid into bed, not saying anything.

Draco, very carefully not looking at him, turned off the light and Harry heard the rustle of sheets as Draco got into the bed beside him. “I'm glad you're here,” Draco said. He didn't sound glad, and he then proceeded to talk a load of shit about not very much. Harry knew he wasn't always very quick on the uptake, but he thought he could figure this one out for himself. Draco was talking to fill the silence he expected. He obviously didn't think Harry was glad to be with Draco.

When Draco finally ran out of things to say, Harry reached over towards the vague outline next to him, and squeezed Draco's arm. “I'm glad I'm here, too,” he said.

Harry felt a hand wrap around his own, squeezing so hard it hurt. After a few seconds Draco relaxed his grip, but didn't let go.

At some point Harry fell asleep, still hand in hand with the boy beside him.

When he woke up, Draco was already dressed and leaning against the wall, reading a book. “Good afternoon,” Draco said, when he noticed Harry was awake.

Harry laughed and groped for his watch. “It's only 10am, you arse,” he said, shoving on his glasses and sitting up.

And so it went on, the week sliding into a fortnight and then a month. Each day they argued, and didn't get an inch closer to solving their problem. Each night they lay side by side, an arm sometimes bridging the gap between them, and talked without venom or recriminations. It was surreal, in a way. Harry had never thought himself one for talking about how he felt about things – about life, about his bloody 'destiny', about what he wanted in his future. And he'd never, ever thought that Draco Malfoy would be the one person he felt comfortable talking to. It was so unlikely. And, even more unlikely, was the notion that Draco Malfoy would want to talk to him about the same issues – actively start conversations, listen when Harry offered advice and not tear him limb from limb. It felt so – so out of character. But then they were both older now – irrevocably changed by their experiences during the war. Harry didn't think that that was such a bad thing, not really.

The only thing they didn't talk about was how they felt about each other. Harry, feeling a bit embarrassed, couldn't find the common manly courage to bring it up – to ask why they were now practically sleeping in the same bed, holding hands more often than not, but ignoring the issue with a will during the daytime.

He was afraid that if he brought it up it would stop. 

***** 

Then, one day, Draco broke the pattern. It was the afternoon and Harry was trying to read another ancient book on Arithmancy. He'd tried it before, but it was dull and the handwriting curled and almost illegible. Draco, who'd woken up in a towering rage, for reasons that weren't quite clear to Harry, was shuffling Tarot cards endlessly, scowling as each card came up with a grinning Death's head.

Harry tried to ignore him. Over the past month they'd worked out that the earthquakes increased in frequency when Draco was outside – so they'd decided that the rational thing would be for Draco to remain in the hotel room. Rational, yes. Comfortable? No. Each day Draco got crosser and crosser, pacing the room like a trapped animal and getting more and more irritated at every single thing that Harry did.

And that day – instead of waiting until night fell and having a calm, considered conversation about things – he launched right into an angry tirade.

“You know what? I hate that I can’t be openly proud of what I’ve done,” Draco spat, throwing down the cards. They scattered across the room, and the grinning skulls infuriated him further. “And I hate that just looking at you reminds me of how ashamed I’m supposed to feel. Well, you know what, Potter? I do feel ashamed, but I feel fucking proud too. I was the only one who managed to get any Death Eaters into Hogwarts – fucking impenetrable Hogwarts – and I hated it and I was shit scared but I did it.” His eyes glittered, hard and sharp, and he took a deep breath. “The papers all full of poor, poor Draco, treating me like I was some sort of pathetic, scared kid who didn’t know what I was doing.” He snapped towards Harry, staring hard at him. “I was at least as brave as you and I did it all on my own.”

Harry held Draco’s gaze for a moment, then looked away, his fingers digging hard into his thighs under the table he was sitting at.

“I am proud,” Malfoy insisted, his voice low and sharp. “I was just a boy but I did a man’s job. I did a lot fucking better than the rest of them.”

“How—” Harry gulped, unable to look at Malfoy for fear his lips would wobble. “How can you be proud of letting in the Death Eaters? They… they murdered our school friends,” he said hoarsely.

Draco made an irritated, unhappy noise and raised a hand, pushing his hair back from his face. “I wish you’d listen,” he said, “and use your brain for once. You can’t divide everything into black and white, for fuck’s sake, it’s not that straightforward. Honestly, Potter, the Dark Lord should have just done Granger in and you’d have been lost.”

“I hate it when you’re like this,” Harry said in a small voice. The bitterness in Draco's voice sent chills through him and he screwed his eyes tight shut for a moment, blinking back the heat behind his eyes.

There was silence for a time.

“I’m most like me when I’m like this,” Draco said. He sounded very tired.

After a few awful seconds, Harry felt Draco’s hand on the back of his neck, winding his fingers into his hair. He shivered, leaning into the touch.

“We don’t—” Draco said, then stopped. “We shouldn’t.” His voice shook, just barely. “This – this thing we're not talking about. Don't make me say it. It can only end badly.”

Harry turned to look at Draco. He was holding himself very upright, his face calm, but when Harry caught his eye a muscle in his jaw twitched. Harry shrugged. “I don’t think I could do without you,” he said. It was more than he meant to say, but the words felt true and raw.

Draco laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh especially, tinged with hysteria. “Then we’re both fucked, aren’t we?” he said. He pulled Harry towards him and held him so tight it hurt.

Harry wondered how he was supposed to act now – what he was supposed to say. He'd never hugged Draco before in the daytime. It felt terrifying. But not as terrifying as the thought of losing his – his Draco.

After a long time, Draco pulled away. “We should get back to work,” Draco said, rather stiffly.

“Oh, okay,” Harry said. There was a tension between them for the rest of the afternoon, and that night Draco drank more sake than was good for him, but – warm and smelling of alcohol – he wrapped his arms around Harry in the night and Harry struggled very hard not to kiss him.

When he woke up the next morning, Draco was awake – but, for once, he wasn't dressed and up. He was lying in bed with his glasses on, one arm slung around Harry and the other holding a book. When he caught sight of Harry looking at him, his cheeks flamed but he stared at his book for a while longer. Finally he cleared his throat. “The Arithmancy won't work,” he said.

“Oh?” Harry asked. “Why not?”

Draco frowned down at the book. “What do you know about Arithmancy?”

“Not much,” Harry said, still feeling half asleep. “Isn't it a way of telling the future? I know Hermione took classes, but she never said how it worked.”

Draco laughed. “And you never asked. Never mind. Basically, Potter, yes it is a way of telling the future – at least, the version taught in schools is.”

“Mm,” Harry said. “And?”

“Well, that's a highly censored version. Father taught me true Arithmancy, as best he could. It's a borderline dark art, to be honest, and one that's fallen out of favour. Divination is just the start of it.”

“What else can it do?”

Draco shifted against him. “The basis of Arithmancy is that number patterns existing in real life can be examined to show the future. So, if you look at it another way, if you can change the patterns in life, you can change the future. Arithmancy can… warp reality, and blend the boundaries between worlds. It's linked to Necromancy. That's why Father thought it might help me.”

“And it hasn't?”

Draco snorted. “No, Potter, obviously not. It's as flawed a method as Divination. From my studies, if I attempted to close the world off from the Dark Lord, there's an equal chance that everything could explode or alternatively implode. Trust me, it not working would be the best result.”

“What is there that's left to try, though?” Harry asked. “I've scanned you dozens of times for every kind of concealing magic I can think of, we've tried earth rituals and potions and—”

“Yes, I know,” Draco snapped, sitting up suddenly. “Why don't you go to that wizarding library and try and find something else to try, instead of lying there moaning?”

Harry thought that was pretty unfair, and said so – but Draco looked like he was ready to throw something at Harry's head, and the book in Draco's hands was large and would probably hurt, so he quickly pulled on his clothes and left.

Draco was a git, that's what he was, and Harry didn't know why he'd forgotten it. 

***** 

When he came back later that day – in fact, later that night (it was gone eleven in the evening and he'd been sitting in a Western bar, drinking beer and chatting to a girl who seemed nice enough, but wasn't blond or… or male enough for his tastes) – Draco was still up, his eyes fixed on a book and his jaw very tight.

Draco didn't say anything to Harry's greeting, and didn't say anything when Harry offered to make him a cup of tea, or get some chocolate. His lips twitched though when Harry offered to prostrate himself at his feet, and he smiled reluctantly when Harry asked if he'd like him to plait his hair or fan him with a large leaf.

“You're a wanker,” Draco said.

“I'm not really,” Harry said, coming over to sit by Draco. Their shoulders brushed and Draco held very still for a moment, before relaxing and leaning against him.

“You are,” Draco said. When Harry looked over, Draco was smiling, properly now.

Then Draco put an arm around him – very casually – and the world spun. If anyone had ever said that he, Harry, would be so affected by such a small thing – done by Draco Malfoy of all people – he would have laughed like a drain, but there it was. When Ginny had put an arm around him he'd felt protective of her – his fear for everyone somehow whittled down into her small, fiery body. He'd sometimes felt content. Her head fitted nicely against him, her family fitted nicely into his life.

With Draco's arm around him, Harry felt scared. Sometimes so scared he couldn't untangle his own thoughts – a whirling mass of terror at the intensity of his own feelings towards Draco, his worry that Draco didn't feel the same (even though Harry couldn't quite pin down how he felt himself) and his sheer need. The way he wanted Draco terrified him. His lack of… of experience in this area, terrified him. Draco was all sharp edges and sarcasm and mockery, and everyone said that Harry was bravery personified but he wasn't, not really.

All Harry knew for sure was that he was teetering on the brink of madness, caring for Draco so much without even knowing for certain what exactly they were doing, or how Draco even felt about him. It was as if they'd slipped into an odd, romantic sort of friendship – relationship really – without either of them talking about it. Except there wasn't much romance and they hadn't even kissed, but they slept practically in the same bed, arms around each other, and when Draco smiled at him Harry's insides flipped and it seemed that Draco missed him when he was gone.

So when Draco put his arms around him Harry felt scared, yes, and more terrified each time – because soon he was going to snap, and the stress of worrying whether Draco would try to castrate him with a pair of chopsticks or, oh Merlin, kiss him back, was growing to be more than he could stand.

That night, Draco fell asleep with his head resting in the crook of Harry's arm, and Harry – keeping his lower body angled away from Draco – knew that he had to do something about their growing closeness, and soon, or he'd go completely insane. 

***** 

Harry woke up in the middle of the night, his arm under Draco feeling a peculiar combination of dead and prickly with pins and needles. He shifted and Draco made a discontented noise and also shifted.

“Do stop wriggling, Potter,” Draco murmured.

“I wouldn't be if your head wasn't so… so heavy,” Harry replied.

Draco laughed, sleepily. “It's the weight of my brain.”

“Yeah, water-weight.”

Draco raised his head a fraction and then pressed it down hard on Harry's arm.

Harry wasn't having any of that. He poked Draco in the side. Hard. “Stop it, you.”

“Make me,” Draco said.

Harry rolled over, dislodging Draco's head from his arm and towering above Draco. He couldn't quite see the details of his face – it was too dark – but he could see his outline. He wasn't sure what to do next.

“You are so unimaginative,” Draco said. “How boring.”

Harry took this as a challenge and, his heart beating wildly, lowered his face towards Draco's own. He stopped, a fraction of an inch away from a kiss, struck by misgivings. Draco's chest was rising and falling very fast beneath him, but… He couldn't do it. He just couldn't. What if Draco didn't want him to?

“Harry?” Draco said, very softly.

“Yes?” Harry said, stupidly, wetting his lips.

“Go on,” Draco said.

“Harry felt like he couldn't move – he was so close to Draco, but he couldn't quite make himself bridge the gap and make his feelings so… obvious. Once it was done, he couldn’t take it back, and he couldn't deny to himself that that was what he really wanted.

He felt a hand curl itself around the back of his neck, and he shivered as Draco's fingers slid along his skin.

Then he kissed Draco.

Draco made a soft, gasping noise and craned his neck up to meet Harry's lips, his hand tightening around Harry's neck. Draco's lips were warm and dry, the skin chapped and slightly scratchy, and when he moistened them Harry felt Draco's tongue brush against his own lips.

Draco kissed like… like someone who kissed very, very well, Harry's brain attempted to think. He was finding it hard to think about anything other than the warm body beneath him, and the lips against his own. Draco's kiss was gentle and agonisingly slow, but when Harry moved faster, pressing his lips against Draco's with more force, Draco willingly altered his pace, his breath hitching.

Draco opened his mouth and they – Merlin – touched tongues. A spark of need wormed its way down to Harry's groin and he broke away, panting. “Got to…” he said. “Fuck. Give me a moment.” He hoped Draco had good skills as a mind-reader, because there was no way in hell he was going to spell out what would happen if Draco kept being so – so – delicious and warm against him.

Draco laughed, very warmly, and tugged at Harry – who lost his balance, falling full on top of Draco. “My, my, Potter,” Draco said, “is that your wand in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?”

Harry could feel Draco in a similar state against him, so – despite the heat flaming to his cheeks – he didn’t feel too stupid. He rolled off, tugging Draco close to him.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Draco said, and then shut up. He had to shut up, because Harry was kissing him. But he wasn't exactly quiet, even then, sighing and humming against Harry's lips. Harry tried harder, kissing him more forcefully, trailing his fingers through Draco's hair. Draco went quite quiet then, digging his fingers hard into Harry's shoulder. He wasn't humming now – he was gasping.

Draco pulled away, biting down on a muffled swear word, his breath coming hard and fast. After a good thirty seconds he laughed, faintly. “I don't want to know where you learned to kiss like that,” he said. “Fucking hell.”

Harry grinned. He could count the number of people he'd kissed on one hand – or, rather, on two fingers. Cho and Ginny. This was not information that he wanted to share. “Are – are we okay?” he asked.

“Hmm,” Draco said. “Apart from the fact that I'm dead—”

“You're not dead, you arse,” Harry interrupted.

“Shush,” Draco said. “I'm dead, I cause earthquakes, and the Dark Lord's going to rise again, and I've got no way of stopping him?”

“I'm surprised you'd want—”

“Don’t you dare,” Draco interrupted. “Don't you dare. I did what I did for my family – for nothing else. If he comes back he'll – he'll murder my mother for betraying him. I'll see him dead before I let that happen.”

Harry bit his lip. “I'm sorry.”

“Yes,” Draco agreed, tucking himself into the crook of Harry's arm. “You'd better be.”

“But we're?”

Draco sighed. “Against my better judgment I find myself,” he paused. “Happy,” he concluded, with a snort. “So shut up, before you spoil it by reminding me exactly who it is that's making me feel this way.”

Harry laughed and, as his arm slowly went dead once more, he didn't even feel like complaining. 

3 

Harry woke up suddenly. Draco was shaking his arm, looming over him. “Wha?” he managed, blinking in the bright light.

“Wake up, will you?” Draco said, his mouth twisting.

“What's up?” Harry said, sitting up and grabbing his glasses.

“I have to do this now before I lose my nerve,” Draco said, very quickly. He shoved back the left sleeve of his robe.

Harry swallowed as he took in the sight of the Dark Mark on Draco's pale skin. It was flat on the skin, nothing more than an ugly tattoo, but…

“Does it change things?” Draco said, not looking at Harry. “I…” He hesitated. “I thought you probably knew already, but…” He ran a hand through his hair. “Fuck.”

Harry took hold of Draco's left arm. Draco flinched but didn't pull away, turning the soft flesh of his inner arm towards Harry – not trying to conceal what was perfectly obvious. Harry ran a finger over the Mark and Draco shuddered.

“You did it to keep Voldemort from killing your family,” Harry said, softly.

Draco was chewing his lip, his face very red. “Not just that. I wanted… I wanted to be respected, like my father. I wanted to be better than you,” he mumbled.

Harry frowned.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. He tried to pull his arm away but Harry held tight.

“It's just an ugly mark,” Harry said, finally. “I can't say I like it, but what's done is done.” On a whim he bent down and kissed Draco's inner wrist, pecking a trail up his arm to the inside of his elbow.

“Oh,” Draco said, very, very quietly. “That's nice.”

Harry sat back up. “Do you want my forgiveness?” he asked. It was a bit much, perhaps – a bit too Gryffindor for Draco's tastes – but he thought it needed saying.

Draco met his eye but didn't say anything.

“Because you have it, whether you want it or not,” Harry concluded.

Draco nodded, sharply. “Yes,” he said. The word sounded like it hurt. “Thank you.”

“Now, I was doing some quality sleeping, and you were being a pain in the neck – I mean, a pain in the arm – before you started being an idiot.” Harry tugged Draco back down onto the futons, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. His hair smelt like apples.

“I wasn't being an idiot,” Draco protested, but he allowed himself to be tucked against Harry's side.

“I know,” Harry said. “But it's okay, it really is.”

Draco said nothing, but he grasped Harry's hand and held it tight, before Harry dozed off once more. 

***** 

“It's Halloween today,” Draco said one morning, a few days later. “I can't believe it's nearly November.”

“Halloween!” Harry grinned. “When the dead walk the land and the boundary between the spirit world and our own is weak.”

“Since I'm a glorified zombie, I can't see the joy in it,” Draco snorted. “And the last thing we need is the boundaries between the worlds weakened.”

They stared at each other for a few, horrified seconds.

“Shit,” Harry said.

“Indeed,” Draco said. He chewed on his lip.

The fear of losing Draco – and gaining Voldemort – stabbed through Harry with a fierce pain. “What the hell are we going to do?”

Draco shrugged. “Wait it out? We haven't exactly been overwhelmed by ideas so far. As far as bright ideas go, Potter, I'm the brains of the outfit – but I fear I don't find myself inspired.”

Something niggled at the back of Harry's mind. He tried to grasp at it, but it wiggled away and wouldn’t let him. It was important, he knew it, but the more he tried to remember, the more the fact escaped him.

It was mid-afternoon when he remembered. The veil. The fucking veil in the Ministry. Only the place where he sodding worked. Thinnest on All Hallow's Eve.

“Come on,” he yelled at Draco, who jumped, raising an eyebrow.

“No need to shout, Potter,” Draco attempted to say – managing to get most of it out before he was whipped around by Harry.

They landed inside the atrium of the Ministry of Magic. It was cold inside, and dark – the atrium only lit by dim nightlights. Harry looked at his watch, calculating English time. It was almost quarter to midnight. If it was going to happen, it was going to happen on the strike of midnight, he'd swear to it. “We've got to get a move on,” Harry said.

Draco was shivering, wrapped only in a thin robe, and Harry put an arm around him – before Draco pushed him away with a noise of irritation. “Come on, then,” he said.

Harry led the way to the lift and they plummeted deep into the bowels of the Ministry. “Level Nine,” an automated lift voice told them. “Department of Mysteries. Registered personnel only.”

Draco raised an eyebrow at Harry. “Registered, are we?”

“Um, I'm still a registered Auror,” Harry said. “Hopefully that will do?”

“You first, then, sir,” Draco snorted.

Harry stepped out into the dark corridor, a light bulb flashing and spluttering in the distance. “It's a bit like a Muggle horror movie,” he said, as they walked down the plain corridor to the large, black door at the end. “Only without—”

“Spare me the details,” Draco muttered. “Let's just get this over with. Not that there is anything to get over with,” he added. “This is a fool's errand.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Harry said heartily, opening the door and stepping into the chamber beyond. Once Draco was through, the wall span around the circular chamber – just as he remembered.

“Safe?” Draco spluttered. “Oh yes, we're really safe down here, deep in the ground, with my special talent for causing earthquakes.”

“I'd forgotten about that,” Harry said, trying the door in front of him and marking it with his wand before it spun around.

“What are we actually looking for?” Draco asked, tapping his foot. “Please don’t forget I don't have a wand, Potter.”

Harry frowned, and dug Draco's old wand out of his pocket, handing it to him.

Draco looked at it in silence, while Harry tried more doors. “If I use this, it'll probably explode,” he said. “Are you some kind of idiot? I told you what happened last time I attempted to use a—”

“Here we are,” Harry said, looking through the door. He remembered the last time he'd been in the room. He'd lost Sirius, and although the pain had dulled, it felt raw and sharp, looking down at the crumbling archway in the centre of the room. “Don't touch the archway – or go anywhere near it. You hear me?”

Draco snorted. “You think I'm planning on going anywhere near an archway with a flapping curtain – where there's no wind? He pushed Harry through the door, which slammed behind them. “Fucking hell it's cold in here.”

The archway… whispered to Harry. He couldn't make out who was talking, but someone was. He took a careful step forwards.

Draco tugged at his arm. “No you don't, Potter. I don't know what the hell that thing is, but it's evil and you're not going anywhere near it.”

“Can't you – can't you hear it calling you?” Harry asked.

Draco frowned. “No,” he said. “We should get the fuck out of here, Harry.”

There was a distant sound of a bell chiming. Once, twice…

“Shit, midnight,” Harry said. He held on tight to Draco's hand. “Fingers crossed nothing happens?”

Three times. Four. Five.

Draco squeezed Harry's hand.

Six. Seven. Eight.

“Harry,” Draco said, very quietly. “I—”

Nine. Ten. Eleven.

“I lo—”

Twelve.

There was a fearful screeching noise and the tattered black curtain in the archway flapped violently. Something crawled through, screaming and wailing. It was small and sickly – its skin wet and oozing, in the spaces where it wasn't covered in rags.

It was the maimed baby from King's cross. Only now it resembled a human infant even less – its face pasty white and featureless, the eyes and nose little more than leaking slashes.

“What—” Harry started. Draco looked at him, his eyes wide and terrified. “What shall we do?”

“Kill it,” Draco breathed. “We've got to kill it.”

The baby wailed where it lay, flailing its stubby arms and legs.

“But it's just a baby,” Harry said uncertainly. He took a few steps further into the room, beginning to climb down the stone steps into the centre.

Draco followed close behind him, and grabbed his arm to pull him back when they reached the bottom step. “It's not just a baby,” he hissed. “It's what's left of the Dark Lord.”

“But it's crying,” Harry said, uncertainly, moving a tiny bit closer. “What if it's the only good bit of his soul?”

Draco snorted. “Good bit? Honestly, Potter, the Dark Lord had no good bits.”

They both eyed the mewling baby-shaped thing with distaste. Harry knew he couldn't kill it, though, and he doubted Draco could either. He hadn't been able to kill the adult Voldemort – why did no-one remember that? He certainly wouldn't be able to kill something that looked like a baby – even if it was… oozing, its limbs twisted and its pupils bright red.

The likelihood of it not being evil was, Harry thought, rather slim, he had to admit.

He took another step closer, still not sure what to do. Maybe he could… scoop it up in his jumper, and leave Kingsley and the others to decide its fate.

He was just pulling his jumper off his head when the thing leaped at him. Tangled in the fabric he tried to dodge but fell, hitting his head on a stone step with a dizzying blow. He could hear Draco yelling, but the thing was at his throat, its arms and legs winding around in a suffocating hold.

There was a sickening crunch and the thing screamed – so loud the sound reverberated through Harry's entire body, and setting off some kind of internal alarm within the Ministry. It loosened its grip on Harry, slipping from his chest and landing in a pool of slime at his feet.

Harry tugged the jumper off and clutched at his throat, coughing violently. He felt like he was going to be sick. He looked down at the… creature. It was lying there – completely still, but surrounded by a pool of bubbling ooze – a hawthorn wand sticking out of its back.

Harry looked over at Draco. Draco was standing motionless, staring down at the thing, his face stiff.

“You – you killed it,” Harry said. His brain felt stupid and slow. What he'd meant to say was thank you thank you thank you, but the words came out almost accusatory.

Draco raised his eyes to meet Harry's own. A muscle in his jaw jumped. “Yes,” he said. “I did.”

The door to the chamber opened and a dozen black-clad Aurors streamed in, with wands raised. “Stay where you are, Mr Malfoy!” one of them yelled. “Don't move.”

“They can see you,” Harry said, amazed. He turned to Draco. “You're fixed. They can see you.”

“Yes,” Draco said again. His voice was very calm and flat. He reached down and pulled his wand from the creature's back. It dripped a trail of ooze as he did so and an Auror flung a Body Bind Curse at Draco, which hit empty space.

Draco had Disapparated. Without Harry.

Harry allowed himself to be bundled off by the Aurors – some of them his former colleagues – without a word. He supposed it was shock, this numb chill that wrapped its way around his limbs and wouldn't let go.

He didn't go after Draco. He didn't know if he'd be welcome. 

***** 

Harry woke up, and he knew he'd been sleeping the sleep of the drugged. His head felt fuzzy and odd, and for a moment his arm reached out for Draco, before he remembered what had happened. His insides lurched and, for a moment, he wondered if he was going to be sick.

Then he got a grip on himself. He got up quickly and dressed, discharging himself from St Mungo's and Apparating to the Ministry, where he spent an hour telling Kingsley, in detail, what he'd been up to.

Then he Apparated to Kyoto – to the room that Draco and he had shared.

It was empty.

Harry stared, wondering where the hell Draco had gone. Did he just think that Harry would let him go, after all they'd been through? He was a git, that's what he was. And when Harry had found him – and kissed him for some considerable length of time – he'd tell him exactly that.

A thought occurred to him. He spun around and landed. The light was dying, but in the distance Harry could see a wooden pagoda, the cliff-side dropping away into a shimmering lake.

Draco was sitting on a large stone with a red cord around it, his back to Harry. There was a similar stone about ten metres away.

“I wonder,” Draco said, “if the rabbit thought it was worth it, in the end.”

Harry walked closer, but Draco didn't turn.

“He'd won the love – the mercy – of a god, but to keep him he had to be good.” He all but spat the word. “Mend his ways. What if he slipped up again? What would the god do then?”

Harry had the oddest feeling that they weren't talking about the myth of the shrine. “I don't know what you mean, Draco.”

Draco snorted. “You wouldn't. It would never have crossed your mind that it might be my fault that the Dark Lord could cross through, would it?”

Harry tried to work out what Draco meant. He wondered if Draco knew exactly what he meant. It sounded bad, though, whatever it was. He tried not to panic.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said.

“The earthquakes – don't you get it? I was the Dark Lord's link to this life – I must have been. If I hadn't come with you to the Ministry, then he wouldn't have been able to break through into this world.” He laughed without humour. “The Arithmancy stuff probably made it easier for the Dark Lord to get through the veil – made me more… susceptible.”

Harry frowned. “That sounds very tenuous,” he said. “I don't think you can be sure that's the way it happened.”

“Don’t use big words, Potter,” Draco snapped. “It doesn't suit you.”

Harry bit his tongue, and tried not to get angry. “Regardless of whose fault it was – and may I remind you that you saved my life and stopped Voldemort from taking control of my body – I've cleared it all up at the Ministry already. You can go home now if you want to. No-one will blame you. You're – you're a hero, really.”

Draco didn't say anything.

“Will you—” Harry cleared his throat. “You told me that your mother wanted you to marry Daphne's sister, Astoria. Will you?” His voice felt thick in his mouth, and he was almost ashamed of the needy, awful tone he could hear in his voice.

“Would you stand in my way if you did?” Draco asked. He turned, very slightly. His face was obscured by his loose hair, the dying light casting him in shadow. Harry was struck, as he was often struck, by how achingly beautiful Draco was. Slender and fragile, his flaws were the salt that brought out the flavour.

“No,” Harry said, numb with dread. “I wouldn't. I—”

“And would you marry the Weaslette?” Draco asked, in such a casual, off-hand manner that he might as well have been talking about the weather.

“No,” Harry snapped, horrified that Draco could ask such a thing.

Draco laughed, his face still turned away.

“This isn't a game, Draco,” Harry said. “How could you think I'd want to do that?”

“And yet you doubt me,” Draco said, so softly that it took Harry a few seconds for the words to sink in.

Oh shit, Harry thought. “I… I love you,” he said, speaking the words for the first time. The words had hung, unspoken, between them for what felt like so long now. Harry had been… been saving them, he supposed, for the right moment. This didn’t feel like the right moment, with the relationship he so sorely wanted dying right in front of him. The words felt hollow, desperate.

“And I you,” Draco said quietly. The sky was nearly dark now, but lit by fireflies that danced amongst the tall trees. “But you will grow to hate me, in the end.”

“No, I won’t,” Harry started, indignant, falling silent when Draco turned, finally, to look at him. His eyes were very fierce.

“I am a Malfoy,” Draco said. “Do you understand what that means, really?”

“Yes,” Harry said, “but I don’t see—”

Draco laughed, rather shakily. “That was a rhetorical question, Harry, and the answer was no.” He looked down at his hands. “We… use people,” he said, again in that flat, characterless tone. “I’m not just like my father in looks alone. I don’t think you’ve ever really understood that.”

“But that doesn’t mean—”

“Oh, do be quiet,” Draco snapped, “please.”

Harry subsided, caught by the pleading, hurt edge to Draco’s voice.

“If we do this,” Draco said quietly, fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve, “I will act every inch the Malfoy. Your family and mine will be publicly allied, your reputation giving strength to ours. My father will milk it for everything it is worth, and trust me it is worth a great deal. I will… use you, Harry, to regain my public standing in means that will be unpleasant to you. Interviews, photo shoots, charity balls – I will do them all, and I will expect you by my side.” He paused, then raised his chin, turning to stare defiantly at the wall just to the right of Harry’s face. “I would hate it, you would hate it, but make no mistake, Harry, I would do it.” He laughed with an air of bitterness. “One cannot escape one’s blood any more than one can escape one’s destiny.”

Harry thought about that for a moment. “Bollocks,” he said, finally.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Bollocks,” Harry repeated, “you’re talking a load of bollocks.”

Draco went red but didn’t speak.

“The press will always hound me back in England, whatever I do. If you want to give—” Harry shuddered a little, “interviews, and provide pictures of you pouring me cups of tea, then at least it’ll be positive press.” He shrugged. “And your father’s a sod, but I can cope. It cuts both ways, you know. You’re going to love spending Christmas at the Weasley’s.”

Draco looked confused. “The Weasley’s?” he said faintly.

Harry laughed. “Yep. Mrs Weasley would have a fit if I spent it anywhere else.”

Draco considered this. “I think,” he started, then paused.

“Yes?”

“I think,” Draco repeated, a small smile blossoming on his face. “That in these photos, it will be you pouring me tea. I am in charge, you know.”

“Oh, really?” Harry said, rolling his eyes.

“Of course!” Draco said. He looked wicked. “I am better than you, so it’s only right.”

Harry snorted. “I beg to differ.”

“Oh, yeah?” Draco said, pouting. “Prove it.”

Harry pounced on Draco, twisting them both round and Side Along Apparating Draco back to the old room they'd shared. When they landed, Harry attempted to pick Draco up, intending to carry him – caveman style – over his shoulder and then to possibly threaten to throw him into the garden, but Draco dodged and they half-fell into a tangled knot on the floor. Draco was breathing hard and his eyes were sparkling. “I said prove it, not squash me to death,” he taunted.

It would be the work of a moment, Harry reasoned, to shut him up with a kiss. But instead he just smiled down at him, enjoying the moment.

Draco flushed and looked a little cross. “Well?” he asked.

“Well, what?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Take me to bed and prove it to me,” he said, and a casual observer would only catch the wobble in his voice if they were looking for it.

“Oh,” Harry said, feeling himself start to grin like an idiot. “Are you sure?”

Draco laughed, a breathless, soft laugh. “Yes.”

So he did, and they did, and the matter was proved to both of their mutual satisfactions – although Draco claimed that the result was inconclusive as he’d let Harry win, so Harry had felt forced to prove it to him all over again.

After, Draco made a noise that was almost a purr, and laughed. “I’m still in charge,” he said, snuggling closer to Harry – which was a challenge, given how tightly they were already wrapped in each other’s arms.

Harry, light-headed with happiness, grinned. “Maybe,” he said.

“Maybe?” Draco repeated, in a tone of mock disapproval.

“I’ll need convincing,” Harry said, and blushed.

Draco stilled for a moment while he considered this, then pushed a hand up to stroke Harry’s hair. “Mmmm,” he said, sounding sleepy. “Maybe. If you’d like.”

“Well, I don’t see why I should do all the work,” Harry said and laughed when Draco whacked him. “Just kidding.”

Draco shifted in Harry’s arms, twisting around to kiss him. “You are so hilarious,” he said, falling back and getting comfy.

“I know,” Harry replied with a laugh, pressing a kiss on the top of Draco’s head.

Harry was almost asleep when he heard Draco whisper something. “Mmm?” he breathed.

Draco made an indistinct noise. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I almost was,” Harry yawned, then tightened his arms around Draco. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” Draco mumbled.

They lay there in silence for a while, Harry feeling a mix of curiosity and worry, while Draco breathed faster than usual, his heart pounding against Harry’s chest.

“I said thank you,” Draco finally said, sounding disagreeable.

Harry suddenly felt like he needed to be very, very careful. “What for?” he said quietly.

Draco took in – and let out – a shaky breath. “For… everything,” he said, his voice quiet. “You’re everything to me. I never expected…” He was silent for a moment.

“Neither did I,” Harry said, thinking it would be impossible for him to be any more in love than he was right now. Anything else he’d ever felt had been a pale, weak comparison.

“Merlin,” Draco breathed, “you’re going to be the death of me.” He laughed softly. “I love you too much,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

Harry held him tight, wondering what the correct reply would be to this.

“Don’t say anything,” Draco said, as if reading Harry’s thoughts. He shifted in Harry’s arms. “You don’t need to say anything. Please don’t. I just…” He took another deep breath. “I just wanted you to know.” He paused. “You fucking own me, Harry.”

Harry wanted to speak, but his chest felt tight and there was a lump in his throat that he couldn’t swallow away. “I…” he started. He smiled into Draco’s hair. “I’ll still pour the tea for you in those photos if you want.”

Draco laughed, a surprised, happy sound. “Wanker,” he replied, with a smile in his voice. “You’d better.”

And then Harry kissed Draco for rather a long time, and they went to sleep rather later than they’d planned, but neither of them made any complaints.

While it couldn’t entirely be described as a happy ever after, because this wasn’t a fairytale by any stretch of the imagination, it was, perhaps, something not far off. 

The End