Last minute fic!
Title: Sendoff
Pairing: … It’s H/D in my mind but, er, the rating kind of says it all.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: They're not mine.
Notes: This was thrown together hastily and may be subject to severe editing in the future. For now, however, I'm running out of time before the last book comes out and have decided to post it as is.
Summary: Harry is dead ... but not quite as gone as Draco would like.
When Harry Potter died, Draco thought things were going to get better. Maybe they would have, if Draco had been able to let things be. Everything had started so well.
Potter had managed to take Voldemort with him, and everyone seemed to believe that, this time, it was a permanent and lasting sort of death. Draco had managed to scramble his way onto the winning side, and to top things off, he wasn’t going to have to deal with Potter strutting about while thousands kneeled at his feet. The whole martyr thing was a tad annoying, but Draco wasn’t going to split hairs.
Things would have been fine if he’d had just kept his mouth shut.
*
He’d always been a verbal person; that was just how Draco’s mind worked. Words were his way of figuring things out. None of the other Slytherins used to like studying with him because of it. Apparently, his constant muttering was a distraction.
Naturally, Draco worked out his frustrations verbally as well. One of his favorite ways to relax when he was in school was to lie in bed, dreaming up new insults for people who deserved them. This was also when he worked on his scathing replies and witty repartee. The problem with this method was that people rarely responded exactly the way Draco imagined they would. There was always some sort of glitch when it came to delivering these perfect responses.
It still helped to go over them in his mind, though.
Of course, if there was one person who Draco felt could not receive enough insults, it was Harry Potter. He was doing everyone a favor, really. Someone had to make sure his head didn’t get to big to fit through doorways. Draco had spent years imagining conversations with Potter (many of which ended with Potter having his face bashed in by Draco’s boot). Draco couldn’t believe his luck at the beginning of sixth year when that one actually happened. Obviously it was true what they said about the power of positive thought.
Things changed as time went on. For a while the things Draco envisioned happening to Potter got considerably more violent. Later, when they had been working together, he preferred to daydream about Potter being publicly embarrassed and front of hundreds. Thousands, perhaps. Hundreds of thousands of very professional Aurors….
The point was, Draco had gotten used to talking to him, even if it was only in his head. So, really, it wasn’t so strange at all when he didn’t stop after Harry was gone.
He still had so many things left to say.
*
“Tell me, Potter,” Draco said. “Does it bother you to see all your friends happily pairing off?” He peered over the top of his paper where the nuptials of one Neville Longbottom and one Ginerva Weasley were announced. A moving photograph accompanied the piece. Ginny stared directly out of the picture at the reader, smiling widely, while Neville varied between looking nervously toward the camera and gazing at Ginny as though he thought she might disappear at any moment.
“Weren’t you two together not too long ago?” Draco asked innocently. He raised an eyebrow at Harry, from where he sat two desks away.
“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry snarled. “Ginny can marry whoever she wants. It’s none of your business, so just keep your mouth shut!”
Draco nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right, Potter,” he paused. “Of course, I suppose it’s really none of your business anymore either, is it now?” He could see Harry’s hands beginning to clench, a sure sign this was getting to him. Draco continued blithely on. “I mean, it hasn’t even been a year and your ex-girlfriend’s already getting hitched to Hogwarts’ puffiest Gryffindor. You were broken up before you bit it, right? Because that would be pretty fast… even for her.”
Draco looked up to see what sort of reaction this comment had garnered, only to find the desk empty. The problem being that it was pretty difficult to use a person’s own death as a means of insulting them. For obvious reasons. It was too bad, though, he thought. That last one had been a real zinger.
Draco set the paper down and stared grimly at the desk which sat some ten feet away from his own. Whoever had come up with the seating arrangements for this place must have been mad. The very idea of Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter being seated on the same floor, much less the same room, seemed an impossible mistake to make. Of course, the Potter/Malfoy rivalry tended to dim in most people’s eyes when compared with certain other of Potter’s enemies. So Draco had been forced to make do with the annoyance of facing Potter at work every day.
In theory at least. It turned out that Harry was not often there anyway. He was constantly gallivanting off to fight evil. Or something. For all Draco knew, he could have been “fighting evil” at the coffee shop down the street. Draco wouldn’t know, seeing as he was only allowed a half hour break which barely gave him enough time to walk to the vending machine on the third floor. The whole situation highlighted the grossly unfair favourment of Potter by the Ministry and, indeed, the world at large. Draco had penned a letter to the head of their department complaining about it - but had never sent it.
It was helpful to get the words down on paper, though.
Even though Potter wasn’t there to bother him in person, Draco was still left with facing Potter’s empty desk everyday. It resembled Harry, somehow. It was messy. There were files scattered across it. Files that Draco would have gotten in trouble for not taking care off weeks ago. No one seemed to mind as long as they were on Harry’s desk. On the rare occasions when he strolled through the office he always seemed to leave something new behind to clutter up the wooden surface: various books on advanced spell casting; a muggle contraption that conjured fire without magic; a snitch that no longer worked; empty boxes of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans. All these things hinted at the life Potter lived when he was outside the Ministry. There had never been a less organized desk in the history of desks.
Draco found it distracting.
And now Harry was dead and Draco still found it distracting.
They’d cleared away all his things, but no one had been assigned to take away the desk. He half thought that they would set up a fancy barrier around it with a plaque that read “Last Desk of the Boy Who Lived.” More likely someday they would just come and take it away. Pack it into some dusty storeroom until everyone had forgotten who it once belonged to.
In the meantime it sat there, distracting Draco from his work. It was too easy to lapse into thinking Potter was sitting there, within insult distance.
*
After Dumbledore died, Draco almost ran. There, in the dark, with the sight of Dumbledore falling from the tower still fresh in his mind, it had seemed a brilliant plan to just keep going. To venture to some far off country and hide there forever. Draco longed to disappear.
But he didn’t.
The truth was he didn’t think there was anyplace he could go where he wouldn’t eventually be found. And, when he was found, he would have no chance whatsoever of gaining Voldemort’s favor. And there was his mother to think of. He still had to protect her.
Draco didn’t like to think about what had happened after that, when he had to face Voldemort again. Pain blurred most of his memories. When he was coherent and could move on his own again, he knelt before Voldemort inside the ring of Death Eaters.
“Tonight is a night of great victory, Draco, so I have been merciful,” he said. At least, Draco was pretty sure that was what he said. There was a very loud ringing noise in his ears still, and it made it difficult for him to be sure.
“But you must not delude yourself that I have forgotten the part you played in all of this,” Voldemort continued. “Had it been left up to you, Albus Dumbledore would still be alive. The one task you were given, you could not accomplish.”
That was a bit rich, Draco thought hazily. After all, if it wasn’t for him none of the Death Eaters would have been able to get inside the school in the first place. That was gratitude for you.
Voldemort’s skeletal hand shot forward and clenched around Draco’s arm, right over the Dark Mark there. It burned horribly at his touch, sending a fresh wave of pain through Draco’s body.
“Foolish boy,” he hissed. “Do you remember what I said would happen if you failed me, Draco Malfoy?”
Draco’s head was clearing very quickly. The faces of his mother and father flashed through his mind, and Voldemort smiled. His face was so horrible that Draco had to look away.
“Your punishment is far from over, Draco. I will not kill you, but you will suffer,” he leaned back and looked around the room, “as an example to all who dare fail me.”
They took him home after that.
*
Draco went to a psychiatrist twice a week. Her name was Sheila. Sheila the Psychiatrist. Draco wasn’t embarrassed about it. He’d been through a lot of trauma in the past few years, after all. Besides, he didn’t really have any friends to keep it a secret from anyway.
Pansy had transferred to Beauxbatons for her seventh year. Her parents thought she’d be safer there. Now she lived in Paris. She still wrote to him but Draco hadn’t returned her letters in months.
Crabbe and Goyle were both on the run. They had joined up with You-Know-Who’s forces instead of going back to Hogwarts. They had probably done less then Draco and yet they were still on the most wanted wizards list. Draco had smuggled them enough money to leave England before his own family accounts had been shut down. He’d ordered them, for everyone’s safety, not to attempt to contact him.
Almost everyone else he’d once considered a friend either hated him or was dead.
*
The first person Draco saw upon entering the Manor was his mother. Her face was drawn and paler than usual, but at least she didn’t look hurt. Like Draco, she was flanked by black-robed guards. Once they’d gotten a good look at each other, Draco was dragged away. There was no time to speak and there was probably little say to that wasn’t obvious anyway.
They locked Draco inside his own bedroom. It seemed too good to be true. His wand had been taken away, but he had a spare hidden in a secret compartment in the wall. It was useless, though, as he soon discovered. The whole room was encased in wards that blocked all magic inside.
He only had one hope left.
There was an old wooden wardrobe standing against one wall of his room. It was far older than the one Draco had repaired. This piece had been in his family for generations, and it had a secret. Draco walked over to it, opened the door, and quickly stepped inside, pulling the door closed behind him. It was mostly empty, only a few sets of robes hanging at one end. With trembling hands Draco raised his wand and murmured, “Lumos.” The small space was flooded with light and Draco could feel his heart leap inside his chest. No one had checked the wardrobe for spells. If they had, they would have found wards far older and more powerful than the ones surrounding Draco’s room. As long as he was inside he would be able to perform magic. Of course, he was rather limited as long as he was stuck inside a bloody wardrobe.
Taking a deep breath and trying to concentrate, Draco focused on the one place he thought he might be able to go for help. He’d only been there once, when he was very small, and his memories of the place were so distorted by time and the perspective of a five year old, that he wasn’t at all sure they would work. Nevertheless, he focused on them, willing them to become as clear as possible in his mind. Then, praying he wouldn’t splinch himself, he Apparated.
He opened his eyes to find himself in Grimmauld Place. It was pitch black and he nearly tripped over every piece of furniture in the room before finding the fireplace. The house certainly seemed empty, but Draco still paused a moment and listened carefully before using his wand to light a fire. Once that was done he rummaged about on the mantel place until he found what he was looking for.
Kneeling down, Draco took a deep breath and threw the Floo powder into the flames. Once they’d turned green he stuck his head inside and yelled, “Ministry of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt’s office.”
When the roaring of the flames died down and Draco could see and hear again, he found himself peering into a dimly lit room occupied by nine feet and one peg leg. There were several people speaking in low, deep voices, but Draco couldn’t make out what they were saying. He kept still for a moment, unsure if he should speak or withdraw. He was beginning to feel that he’d made a horrible mistake. And then another voice rang through the room.
“Draco Malfoy’s head is in your fireplace, sir,” said Harry Potter.
Immediately all the feet in the room advanced on Draco. Moody was the first to reach it and Draco craned his neck backward to escape his clutching hands.
“Stop it Mad-Eye,” said Shacklebolt, his face appearing too. Harry was crouched behind them, looking at Draco with wary eyes. Draco could see two more shadowy figures behind him. “Tell me what you’re doing here,” Shacklebolt commanded.
Draco opened his mouth and then coughed as soot got caught in his throat.
“Are you joking, Kingsley?” Moody snarled. “Grab him out of the fireplace first and then we can ask questions later!”
“No!” Draco spluttered. “You can’t take me! I can’t be gone that long.”
“Gone from where, Malfoy?” Harry asked quietly.
“They’re keeping me at Malfoy Manor,” Draco said quickly. It was too late to back out now.
“And they’re not monitoring the fireplaces?” said Moody. “How stupid do you think we are, boy, to fall for whatever you’re about to tell us?”
Draco tried not to grind his teeth. “I’m not there now. I’m using a fireplace in a different location.” He smirked at them. “Don’t bother trying to find out where, it’s untraceable.” He was pretty sure this was true, if what Snape had told him had been correct. The irony pleased him immensely.
“What do you want then?” Potter was looking at him with an odd expression on his face. Almost as though he knew what Draco was about to say.
“I need your help.”
Moody let out a great bark of laughter. “Lucius Malfoy’s son needs our help?”
“Yes!” said Draco angrily. “And you need mine.”
The laughter stopped abruptly.
“What makes you say that?” Shacklebolt asked him.
“You don’t have Snape reporting to you anymore,” Draco said quickly, hoping that all his instincts were right and he wasn’t about to blow this. If he was wrong about Snape then he might as well give up now. “You don’t have anyone on the inside. Except me.” To his great relief this seemed to strike a chord with them.
“Why should we trust you?” came a new voice. A woman with a small pointed face and bright pink hair had appeared next to Harry. Draco thought there was something vaguely familiar about her, but he didn’t have time to figure out what.
“You probably shouldn’t and I don’t have time to prove myself at the moment so you’ll just have to listen. I’m being held at the Manor, along with my mother. There are at least twenty Death Eaters here with us. I think more will be coming soon, along with the Dark Lord.”
“Voldemort,” Potter whispered, and everyone else flinched.
“Yes, him,” said Draco. “I don’t know what he’s got planned, but I want my mother out of here.”
“Why?” asked Shacklebolt.
“He wants to punish me,” said Draco shortly. “If he was going to kill me I think he’d have done it already, but he as good as told me he plans on hurting her to get to me. If you attack the manor now you could take her and probably capture a few Death Eaters, but still let me and some others escape so it wouldn’t look too suspicious. If you do that then I’ll report back to you about what happens next.”
“Why in earth should we believe--”
“I told you,” said Draco, cutting Potter off, “you probably shouldn’t. But I have no reason to trust any of you either. I’m only here because you’re my last chance. If you do this for me then you have my word I’ll uphold my end of the bargain. It may not mean much to you, but it’s all I’ve got at the moment.”
They were all quiet.
“Give us a moment,” Shacklebolt said to him.
“Fine, but be quick about it. If they find out I’m gone, I’m dead and you’re out of a spy.”
They walked across the room and convened there quietly for a moment as Draco kept still in the fireplace, hoping he’d used enough Floo powder.
After what seemed an age, Kingsley Shacklebolt resumed his place crouching in front of Draco.
“We accept your offer and agree to help get your mother out of harms way. But we won’t be able to do it immediately.”
Draco’s heart sank. “What do you mean? We don’t have time to wait! They could do anything to her there and I won’t be able to stop them.”
“Your concern is touching,” sneered Moody, “but we find it a little hard to believe that any real harm will come to Narcissa Malfoy. Your family has been following You-Know-Who since he first came into power. I think your mother can afford to wait a few days.”
“You don’t know anything,” Draco spat. “The Dark Lord has no allegiances that are unbreakable. That’s exactly the point he wants to make by harming my family!”
Potter was frowning and seemed about to say something, but before he could someone else stepped forward from the shadows. It took Draco a moment to recognize Remus Lupin. He looked more ragged and tired than ever, and his hair and beard were long and unkempt. There was something different about his eyes too. Draco thought he might have guessed he was a Werewolf now even if he hadn’t already known. There was a wildness there.
When he spoke his voice sounded hoarse. “The Order needs time to formulate a plan before we move in. To do anything before then would be utterly foolish. We need time to gather ourselves for this fight, and I believe we have it. You’re not the only person we’ve got on the inside,” he grinned wolfishly at Draco, “and my ears are larger than yours. I think we have a few days before Voldemort makes his move.”
“You think.” Draco’s voice was flat. “What if it was one of your own? Would you take your time and gather yourselves then? Or would you go barging in and do your best to save them?” He was looking at Potter as he spoke. Potter was scowling but he met Draco’s eyes and his answer was written clearly there. Once again he opened his mouth, and for a moment Draco was hopeful.
But Moody spoke first. “You’re not one of our own, Malfoy,” he said coldly, “and neither is she. We’ll do our best, but it’s better to get that straight right off. You will never be one of us.”
Draco sneered at him and hoped they would mistake the angry tears in his eyes for glittering reflections of the flames surrounding him. “Like I would even want to be,” he said.
“Expect us in two days,” said Shacklebolt. “Remember, we can’t be seen treating you or your mother differently or your cover will be blown. If you’re forced to fight with one of us then you’ll have to take a hit. Nothing serious, just a spell to knock you out and give you a few bruises. If something happens before that then you can contact us with this.” He handed Draco a hollow sphere, smaller than a snitch. It fit easily into his hand. “It’s an automatic contact Patronus. Break it and it will find me.”
Draco looked silently at them. “Thanks ever so much,” he said bitterly, and broke the connection.
*
He lived in a good neighborhood about ten minutes walk from Diagon Alley. Draco’s apartment was all white. It was also very stark. He had worked hard to make sure that the combined effect said, “I am refined with impeccable taste” instead of, “I have no money for paint or furniture.” Not that he ever had anyone over to see the place. It was too small to have many visitors anyway. The sitting area and kitchen were all one room and Draco’s bedroom was so tiny he couldn’t open or close the door without it hitting his bed.
“You know, Malfoy,” said Harry Potter, “I can’t decide if having this makes you a snob…. or a granny.” He was inspecting the silver tea set Draco had placed on the kitchen table. It was used, which horrified Draco, but it had reminded him of a set his mother used to have. Hers had always kept the tea warm and poured itself. Draco’s just occasionally tried to bite his nose.
But Potter didn’t need to know that. “I wouldn’t expect you to recognize good taste, Potter,” said Draco with a sneer. “You spent too much time with Muggles and the Weasleys when you were growing up.”
He looked round, expecting to find Potter gone now that Draco had delivered the perfect insult, but he was still there. He bent down and looked carefully at the teapot. “Nice try, Malfoy. I don’t think this is even real silver.”
“It is so!” Draco snapped, annoyed that he was letting himself be annoyed by even an imaginary version of Potter.
“Nope,” said Harry, a note of glee creeping into his voice. “Somebody screwed you over.”
“Piss off!”
Harry shrugged. “Fine,” he said, and disappeared.
Draco was in a bad mood for the rest of the day.
*
He had known what was going to happen. That was what he told himself later. At the time, all he knew was that his stomach was in knots and he couldn’t shake the feeling of doom that hung over him. Later, he condemned himself for not doing something… but at the time he’d thought he’d done all he could.
He had tried to tell them he didn’t have two days. She didn’t have two days.
When Voldemort arrived Draco barely had time to smash the sphere that held the Patronus and watch its shadowy figure go bounding out of his bedroom window straight through the glass before they came for him.
Maybe Draco had been wrong and the Dark Lord had meant to kill him after all. Perhaps it was just a trap to make Draco fight back, because that’s what he did. He fought as they dragged him down the corridors, and he fought later too, to get away. To get to her. But it didn’t do any good. He thought he would fight against them forever.
But they were interrupted.
There was a smashing noise that Draco later found out had been the windows crashing inward. Then the Aurors were in their midst.
The Death Eaters holding him let their grips loosen in shock and Draco flailed out blindly and caught one of them hard in the mouth. He wrenched himself out of their hands only to come face to face with another bone-white mask. He raised his wand and then paused, remembering they were supposed to be on the same side. The Death Eater, however, didn’t seem to be having the same thought. Draco heard a quick, muffled spell muttered and found himself being thrown into the air. He came down hard on his side with a burning pain in his chest so intense that all he wanted to do was lie there gasping. Instead he scrambled back to his feet, trying not to worry as all his internal organs protested.
He looked about trying to get his bearings and hoping to spot his mother somewhere in the swirl of black robes and shouted spells. He ducked as a misfired hex went whizzing over his head. Narcissa was nowhere to be seen. He could see Potter, though.
He was facing Fenrir Grayback, holding the Werewolf off with some quick wand work. Unlike the other Death Eaters, Grayback wore no black robes or mask, and Draco could clearly see his face. He was smiling. As Draco watched, he easily dodged yet another of Potter’s spells and leaped at him from the side, knocking Potter to the floor. He crouched over him and let out a wolfish howl of triumph.
Draco looked around, but none of Potter’s allies had noticed what had happened. They were all too absorbed in fighting their own battles, and too far away to do anything to help anyway. The only person close enough was Draco himself.
In the split second it took him to decide, Draco considered letting Grayback finish him off … but not very seriously.
“Petrificus Totalus,” Draco shouted.
Grayback went rigid, his face frozen in a snarl. Potter pushed him off with a little difficulty and quickly stood up, wand already raised. He spotted Draco immediately and his eyes widened.
Draco had only a moment of grim satisfaction before Potter pointed his wand and Draco felt his legs buckle underneath him. It wasn’t exactly the response he’d been expecting. He appreciated it a moment later, however, as several spells went shooting through the air where he’d been standing.
By the time he was able to move his legs again, Potter had disappeared.
Ducking low, to avoid getting cursed (by either side), Draco began to move through the room. He still couldn’t see his mother anywhere. Neither could he see the Dark Lord.
He was trying to decide if this made him more relieved or nervous when he saw Mad-Eye Moody. Worse yet, Moody saw him. With a sinking feeling Draco remembered Kingsley Shcklebolt’s words.
“If you’re forced to fight with one of us then you’ll have to take a hit.”
Moody shot him a nasty grin and raised his wand.
When Draco came to and was able to sit up, everything was in an uproar and he thought the battle was still going on. But after a moment he realized that the only Death Eaters in the room were either dead or unconscious. The fight was over.
“Malfoy?”
Draco turned and saw Potter standing a few feet away. He looked pale and had blood running down his face from a cut above his left eye.
“My mother?” Draco managed to choke out.
Harry looked away.
*
Potter had tried to explain, Draco thought. He couldn’t really remember. He hadn’t been listening well.
He had said something about his scar burning and trying to get there faster but all that really mattered was that they hadn’t gotten there fast enough.
Narcissa Malfoy was dead.
Draco turned to Potter and said coolly, “I hope you know this means all bets are off.”
*
Shacklebolt must have felt badly about it. That was the only reason Draco could figure they had given him the job. Of course, they used him to learn as many details as they could about the Dark Lord, but they didn’t have to employ him to do that. In fact, they could have locked him up. Instead, as soon as he was released from the hospital, he was instated at the Ministry. Filing things. And that’s where he’d stayed.
He wondered what Potter would have said if he’d known Draco was still there.
“You still work here?” Harry asked, surprise written clearly across his ever so slightly see-through features as he looked at the disguised Ministry building.
“Yes,” Draco replied, voice tight.
“What do you do?”
“I file things.”
“Wait, you mean you still have the same job?”
Draco didn’t think this was worth responding to.
“But it was a fake job! I mean, they only placed us there because we couldn’t officially work with the Aurors.”
“Maybe that was the case for you,” Draco said. “They only put me there to keep an eye on me and pump me for information about the Death Eaters.”
Harry was shaking his head. “I can’t believe you still work here. That’s kind of pathetic.”
“At least I’m still alive to have a job.”
“Ouch,” said Harry, voice flat. “You wound me, Malfoy.”
Draco didn’t understand. Normally he didn’t imagine their sparring matches going quite like this. Normally he got the last word.
*
Actually, Draco had gone to Shacklebolt months ago to ask about getting a new job.
“It’s not that I’m not grateful,” he drawled, in a way that implied that he was not grateful in the least, “it’s just that, well, I am capable of doing more than organizing files, actually.”
This was true. He’d gotten good marks at school. Even his last year, his grades had only started to really slip towards the end, when he’d been so desperate and sleep deprived trying to fix the wardrobe that he could focus on little else.
He’d thought the assessment at the end of his fifth year was a bit of a joke since he’d fully expected to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a Death Eater. He’d told McGonagall he wanted to be an Auror just to make her angry. It had worked. But, in an ironic turn of events, Draco had done well enough on his O.W.L.S to actually apply. Not that he ever would have passed the background check, but it was still good for a laugh.
“It’s not that we don’t think your capable, Draco,” Shacklebolt told him. “But unfortunately it’s against Ministry policy to hire anyone who hasn’t taken their N.E.W.T.S.”
“Then why,” said Draco slowly, “am I allowed to work here now?”
Shacklebolt didn’t even blink. “You already know the answer to that question. The Ministry had need of you. Unfortunately, this loophole can’t be stretched. However,” he reached inside his desk and pulled out a pamphlet, which he handed to Draco, “you do have options. There are classes offered for witches and wizards who weren’t able to finish school. The classes only last six months, less then a full school year, and I’m sure you would have no difficulty passing the test.”
“Me, go take classes with a bunch of dropouts who are ancient by now?” Draco sneered. “No, thank you.”
“Very well, but I still say it’s your best shot. Unless you plan on going back to Hogwarts.” Kinsley Shacklebolt smiled as though he’d made a joke.
Draco didn’t find it very funny. He snatched the pamphlet and stormed out of the room.
He hadn’t glanced at it since.
*
In retrospect, he probably should have noticed something odd was happening much sooner. He didn’t, it seemed, because he spent far too much time thinking about someone he was supposed to hate. Did hate, he meant did hate.
Over the next few days, he slowly began to think that perhaps the Potter who seemed to be following him everywhere was not the same Potter that Draco had been chatting with since his death. The changes were subtle but definitely there. For instance, this new Potter seemed a lot more like he had when he was alive. He spoke back more; he was constantly hanging about looking sullen; he didn’t disappear after Draco had finished speaking; and he constantly left Draco in a state of fury. Also, he was slightly transparent.
Maybe the changes weren’t so subtle after all.
Draco eventually twigged when he woke up one morning to find Potter standing in his room looking out the window. Even Draco’s imagination wasn’t that active so soon after waking up. There had to be another explanation for this fantasy.
No, he corrected himself. It was a delusion, not a fantasy, a delusion. He obviously needed to get his head checked.
Trying not to panic, Draco wrote a quick note and sent it off with his owl. He got a response within the half hour and was out the door without even brushing his teeth within two minutes. Harry followed him.
*
“I think I’m going mad,” Draco told Sheila.
It was eight o’clock in the morning, an hour before her office usually opened for business. Sheila the Psychiatrist sat in her favorite red chair, notepad resting on her lap while she twirled a pencil in one hand. She gave Draco a long look over her spectacles, as though this was unsurprising news that certainly didn’t warrant getting out of bed an hour early to see him.
Draco would have found this offensive under normal circumstances, but his Potter vision had followed him into Sheila’s office. He stood in the corner, inspecting the potted plant there.
Madness.
“What makes you say that?” Sheila asked patiently.
“I’ve started seeing someone,” Draco said, all in a rush. He was speaking too quickly. He couldn’t help it. Potter was smirking at him.
“Do you mean you’ve started dating someone?” Sheila asked.
Draco’s attention snapped back to her. “What? NO!”
Sheila the Psychiatrist scribbled something down on her notepad.
“I mean I’m SEEING things! Visions! A person who isn’t there!”
“How do you know he’s not there?”
“He’s dead.”
“Hmm.”
“That’s it?” Draco snapped. That sort of response was hardly what he was paying for.
“You’re so rude, Malfoy,” Potter said from his corner.
“May I ask, Draco, who it is that you are seeing?”
Draco hesitated. It was one thing to imagine you were being followed around by some random dead person. People would assume you were batty and get on with it. To say that person was Harry Potter…. Well, people might think he had some sort of complex.
“Nothing you say here will leave this room, remember that, Draco.”
“Fuck,” said Draco, and then very quietly, “It’s Harry Potter.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sheila the Psychiatrist, “who?”
“Harry-bloody-Potter, okay! So just give me another potion to make it go away and I can forget this ever happened,” Draco said. And then, for good measure, “It’s not like I have a complex or anything. Just to be clear. I just, apparently, need another potion. A good one. And quickly.” He refrained from snapping his fingers to make his point.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Draco,” Sheila said.
Life was so cruel. “Why not?” Draco practically wailed.
“Because you’re not seeing things.”
“What? Yes I am! Have I not been clear? Harry Potter, martyr of the wizarding world, has been following me around for days. He shows up everywhere!”
“Yes,” said Sheila, “I know. He’s standing in the corner right now.”
*
There was a lot of confusion after that.
Potter became rather excited, and Draco had to be convinced that he wasn’t dreaming or hallucinating. Once it had been firmly established that Draco wasn’t seeing things, it had taken a little more time to clear up what was actually going on.
“But,” said Draco weakly, “he’s dead.”
“Good call, Malfoy,” said Potter. “So glad you managed to grasp that fact.”
Sheila ignored this. “Yes, he is.”
Draco felt rather faint. “I’m being followed around by a ghost? Oh Merlin, I’m being haunted! By Potter!”
“You look a little pale, Draco,” said Sheila, her voice sounding very far away. “Perhaps you ought to lie down for a little while.”
Draco bent over and put his head between his knees, gasping for breath.
“Why on earth would I want to haunt Malfoy?” Potter asked.
“Well, usually becoming a ghost is a conscious decision made by the witch or wizard before death,” she said, frowning slightly. “However, there have been some rare cases in which the person’s soul is simply drawn back by unfinished business. Perhaps that is why you’ve chosen to stay behind, Mr. Potter.”
Draco slowly sat up and looked about. Harry’s face was very grim.
“But I didn’t stay behind. I’ve only been back for a few days. And it wasn’t my choice… something called me back.”
Draco thought he might be ill.
“Well then, Mr. Potter,” said Sheila, “perhaps someone here has some unfinished business with you.”
*
Potter’s ghost was very cross as Draco walked back to his flat.
“I want you to tell me what you did!”
“Shhh,” said Draco nervously. “People are staring.”
“I don’t care! I want you to tell me what you did so we can undo it.”
People were, indeed, turning about to stare at them as Potter raised his voice. Maybe he didn’t care, but Draco did. He hadn’t spent his formative years being gawked at by the general population.
“I didn’t do anything,” he hissed.
Unsurprisingly, Harry didn’t let things go at that. “Of course you did! I didn’t get to be a ghost all on my own. I got called back by you and I want to know how you did it. And why.”
Draco had reached the entrance to his flat but he paused a moment before going in. “You’re crazy, Potter. There’s no way I would want to bring you back from the dead. I’m just as disappointed about it as you are.” Draco took a few steps closer to Harry and looked him straight in the eyes. “My life was great with you dead and gone.”
Harry looked back at him evenly. “Why did it take you so long to realize I was actually here, Malfoy?”
Draco didn’t have an answer to that question that wasn’t about ten different kinds of embarrassing, so instead of saying anything he stomped inside, slamming the door as he went.
He nearly jumped in surprise when he unlocked his door and found Harry already there.
“I want answers.”
It took a very long time to convince him that Draco had no idea what was going on. And even after that Potter still seemed suspicious.
“Maybe you didn’t mean to do it,” he said, “but you’re tied up in this somehow. You triggered something that brought me back. I can feel it.”
Draco didn’t say anything, but he was afraid Potter might be right.
*
The next few days were awful. Potter followed him everywhere. Sometimes he would disappear for a few hours, but he would always come back. He hung about Draco’s flat; he walked with him to work; to the shops; to the pub where Draco downed a very much needed drink. He even chatted with the bartender who, thankfully, didn’t recognize him.
Draco hurried home afterwards. The Firewhisky had made his throat burn uncomfortably. It had been sore to begin with from losing his temper so often these past few days.
“So this is what you do, is it?” Potter asked. “Go to the smelly pub down the way for a drink all by your lonesome on Friday nights?” His voice was disdainful.
Draco spun round. It was hard to restrain himself from punching Potter in the face. Only the fact that his head was see-through stopped him from trying. Draco had never realized how quickly the two of them used to resort to physical violence until now, when they couldn’t. He’d already been confronted with this reality several times since Harry had arrived. The truth was that there was no possible way he could express with words what he could by bashing Harry’s face in. There was nothing he could say that would hurt him as much as Draco wanted him to hurt.
“What business is it of yours?” he shouted hoarsely. “I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve told you to piss off, so why stick around? I HATE you, Potter. I may have had something to do with bringing you back, but that doesn’t mean I want you here. It was an accident, alright? So go bother someone else. Someone who cares.”
They stood there, glaring at each other. Harry wanted a fight too, Draco could tell. He kept clenching and unclenching his fists. It was maddening to be able to do nothing. The tension surrounding them was so thick it would have taken a sword to hack through it, and yet all they could do was look at each other.
Potter was as untouchable as ever.
Finally Harry shook his head and took a step back. “Don’t you think I would if I could?” he said.
“What?”
“I’ve tried, alright! But it’s like I can only get so far from you. The same thing that brought me back, that’s keeping me here - it ties me to you.” He looked furious at the very idea.
Draco wasn’t all to thrilled about it either. And yet…
The thought of Harry being so dependent on him, that his very existence was so tied to Draco…. it was a heady feeling. One he tried desperately to stifle. No power trip was worth being followed around by Harry Potter for the rest of his life. Something had to be done.
“It’s time we tried to fix this,” Draco said.
For once, Harry agreed with him.
*
He only went to them because he thought they were probably the only ones who could handle it. After all, this was only one more strange thing in a long list of strange things that had happened to Harry Potter. Ron and Hermione had helped get him out of everything else, why not this?
“Just for the record,” Harry said, “I think this is a really bad idea.”
They were standing on the walkway leading up to a pleasant house right on the seashore. It had taken Draco a little time and some discreet questioning, but he’d eventually discovered that Ron and Hermione were on holiday with the Weasley twins in a small seaside village in the south-east. Once he got the precise location, they Apparated there. Well, Draco Apparated. Harry just appeared there next to him. They hid in the bushes across the street until they saw the twins leave and only then did Harry allow them to stand and approach the house. It was very small and painted red with white shutters.
“How quaint,” Draco sneered. “I’m surprised they can even afford a place like this.”
“Of course they can,” Harry said sharply. “The twins are wealthier than you are now, Malfoy.”
“Oh I see, so their little brother just hangs about them looking for free holidays, is that it? It’s in poor taste if you ask me.”
“No one did.”
Draco shrugged. “Whatever, Potter. Let’s just get this over with.” He stepped up onto the porch and knocked on the door before he lost his nerve. His stomach was in knots. He had no idea what he was going to say, but he was really hoping something brilliant would come to him as soon as the door opened.
Unfortunately, it was Ron who answered the door.
“Hello Weasel,” said Draco. Old habits died hard.
Surprise was written clearly across Ron’s freckled features. “What the fuck are you doing here, Malfoy?”
Twenty seconds in and already things weren’t going very well. That was disheartening. Potter was glaring at him from where he stood to the side of the doorway, out of sight. “I um, I sort of need to talk with you,” said Draco, trying to sound less hostile.
“Who is it, Ron?” Hermione came into view over Ron’s shoulder. Her mouth dropped open as she saw Draco. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“He says he needs to talk to me.”
“Both of you, actually.”
“About what?” Hermione asked. Her face was more guarded than Ron’s but she clearly wasn’t any happier about him being there.
Draco took a deep breath. “I need your help.”
“Our help?” Ron’s face was getting red. “You’ve got to be kidding me! I want you off our porch, Malfoy. Now!”
Draco cast a desperate glance Harry’s way. “Wait! It’s important.”
“Then I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone else to help you!”
Harry stepped forward. “Calm down, Ron,” he said. “Malfoy’s right, it is important.”
Both Ron and Hermione looked as though they might faint for a moment. Like they’d seen a ghost, thought Draco as he stifled a nervous giggle. Hermione turned on him. “What is this,” she said, voice shrill. “Is this your idea of a sick joke?” She looked as though she might burst into tears.
“I wish,” said Draco.
“Don’t listen to him,” Harry said, glaring at Draco. “It’s not a joke, and we do need your help. Can we please come inside?”
An hour later, things had finally been explained as best as they could be. During the process, Ron and Draco had gotten into several shouting matches and Ron had thrown a punch that Draco had just barely ducked. Ron continued to get hung up on what Draco considered to be insignificant details.
“You fucker!” Ron shouted at him. “I always knew we never should have trusted you!”
“It was an accident!” Draco shouted back, for what felt like the hundredth time. “I don’t even know what or if I did anything to make it happen, okay?”
“Shut up, both of you,” said Hermione. Both she and Ron seemed to have trouble taking their eyes off of Harry, who was standing at the window looking out at the ocean. Hermione frequently had to duck her head down to dab tears from her eyes. “Of course we’ll help you, Harry,” she said.
Harry turned back from the window to look at her. “Thanks, Hermione.” His face was hard to read. Draco had known it was going to be strange for his friends to see him again, but he hadn’t really considered that it might be difficult for Harry to see them.
“So,” said Draco awkwardly. “Do you know what we should do?”
“You’ve done enough!” said Ron. “We’ll take care of it on our own.”
“No, Ron,” said Harry gently. “It doesn’t work like that. We’re tied together somehow, so that means we’ve got to work together, somehow. That’s the only way this will be fixed.”
“And by fixed you mean…” Ron’s face was uncertain. Several times since they’d been there Draco had noticed him reach out a hand as though to place it on Harry’s shoulder, before remembering and letting it drop to his side.
“I mean things going back to the way they should be. I’m dead, Ron. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t want to be here. Not like this.”
Hermione sniffed loudly and stood up, looking determined. “Well, I’m sure there’s a way we can solve this. There are loads of books written about ghosts, there’s bound to be some sort of useful information in one of them. I don’t have any here, of course. We should all plan a time to meet up at the public library, I think that would be best. If we work together--”
But Harry interrupted. “No.”
“What do you mean, no?” asked Draco feeling irritated. He’d either been pushed to the sidelines or wrongfully accused for the entirety of this meeting and he wasn’t in the mood to deal with Potter being difficult.
“We can’t meet up.”
Ron and Hermione looked confused as well. “Why not?” Hermione asked, sounding a little hurt.
“I know that you want to help, I wanted you to help too… but I don’t think we should ever have come here. Seeing the both of you, it’s great, but it’s not fair. You’ve already said your goodbyes to me, it’s not right to come here and make you do it all over again. The dead should stay dead,” said Harry sadly. “You have your own lives to lead, and I’m not a part of them anymore. I’m just a memory.”
Hermione was crying softly into Ron’s shoulder and Ron’s mouth kept shaping itself into funny, desperate lines as he clenched his jaw too hard. “It doesn’t matter, Harry,” Hermione sobbed. “We’d do anything to help you. It would be w-w-worth it.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Harry said softly. “And it would only make it that much harder for me to leave. We have to say goodbye now, for the final time, before it’s too much to bear.”
“Wait!” Hermione said. She rushed from the room only to come back a moment later, quill and parchment in hand. “Maybe I can’t be there to do it myself,” she said, “but you’re going to let me do this much, Harry Potter!” She started scribbling things down furiously. When she was done she folded the paper up and started to hand it to Harry, then turned and handed it to Draco instead. “These are the books you should read,” she told him sternly. “I want you to read them cover to cover, Malfoy. You better fix this.”
“Can’t you wait outside?” Ron said with a glare. “Just for a minute?”
“No, he can’t,” Harry said before Draco could respond. “When he goes I have to go too. We’ve got to do it now.”
The three of them stood in the middle of the room looking at each other. Now that the moment had come none of them seemed to know what to say. Draco tried to think what he would have said the last time he’d spoken to his mother or father if he’d known he would never get another chance. He couldn’t think of anything. It was just too much to sum up.
Finally Harry spoke. “Erm, look, I know all this is really strange, but seeing as this is my last chance to….” he faltered.
“We love you too, Harry,” Hermione told him.
“Yeah, mate,” Ron said in a choked sort of voice.
“Right,” said Harry, and then more softly, “Right.” He leaned close and said something too softly for Draco to hear and then turned and walked abruptly from the room. Draco followed. He practically had to run as Harry marched quickly away from the house down the path to the beach, where he finally stopped.
“We should never have come here,” he said, voice tight.
“No,” Draco said quietly. “I guess not.”