Fic - Seven Years (Harry Potter, H/D, PG, 1 of 2)
Title: Seven Years
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine, don’t sue, etc.
Notes: For miggy’s H/D MP3 Ficathon. Freedy Johnston - Bad Reputation requested by sincelastjuly. Many thanks to cincodemaygirl and cawti, for they are wise and marvellous. Also for 2am_optimism, who wanted to see me write Draco.
Seven Years
Suddenly I’m on the street,
Seven years disappear below my feet.
Been breaking down.
Do you want me now,
Do you want me now?
1. October 26th, 2004
It was good to be back.
Draco hadn’t expected that, not really. When he’d let himself imagine returning, it was with a sense of triumph, of entitlement, of taking back something that had been stolen from him. He hadn’t thought that there would be this sense of relief. As he stepped out of the cross-Channel apparition booth and onto Platform 9 ¾, a years-old tension at the top of his spine eased slightly.
Letting the door to the booth shut behind him, Draco looked around. Late October was a slow time for travel in the Wizarding world, and there were only a dozen people waiting for the next train. To his left were several adults travelling alone, two of whom were reading the day’s Prophet, and one elderly witch with several large trunks. On his right, towards the wall to the rest of the station, was a small family, the father holding a young boy while the mother pleaded with a slightly older girl in the midst of a screaming tantrum. Draco frowned at the little girl and was taken aback when she stopped suddenly and stared at him. Her parents both turned to see what she was staring at. Her mother paled, and her father got red and blotchy. He gathered up his family and ushered them roughly past, towards the other end of the platform, staring the whole time, and keeping his back from Draco. The other travellers had turned to see what had caused the sudden silence. There was a gasp, and then a low murmur started.
“Malfoy?” “Malfoy, it can’t be…” “The amnesty only went through yesterday…”
This, this, he should have expected. Foolish that it should hurt, shocking that it wasn’t worse. Stepping away from the booth, he nodded aloofly to his audience, turned gracefully and walked to the wall. He was very careful not to hurry, though he could feel eyes boring into his back. The last thing he heard as he walked through the wall was the voice of the elderly witch.
“I certainly didn’t think that any of them would actually have the nerve to come back!”
2. September 1st, 1996
“I didn’t think he’d have the nerve to come back!”
Despite his stubborn insistence that he wouldn’t listen, damn them all, Draco could still hear the talk, the voices speculative and spiteful as everyone waited for the Hogwarts Express.
The Weasel’s voice was loudest and most satisfied. “Finally got what was coming to him, Lucius Malfoy did, and now Draco’ll have to get along at school without any help from his dear old Dad.” Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Weasley nudge Potter with his elbow. “How long d’you think he’ll last, Harry, a month? Less? C’mon, Harry, what d’you think?” Potter had been staring off into space and startled at the contact; his reply was mercifully too low for Draco to hear.
A pair of fifth-year Ravenclaw girls were pacing the platform and discussing the validity of the latest rumour. “They say that Malfoy lasted for three hours under Bellatrix Lestrange’s Cruciatus before You-Know-Who finished him off. But given the timeline in the Prophet of the break from Azkaban, and the second attack on the Ministry, it really couldn’t have been more than two, don’t you think?”
Finally the train arrived, and the crowd on the platform surged into motion, parents offering last minute advice that was ignored as the students sought to find their friends to share a compartment. A second-year Slytherin scurried past him with her suitcase, and her eyes slid over him like he wasn’t there. Draco scowled at her back. Even his own House will have abandoned him. Even Crabbe and Goyle, thick as they were, knew that he was no good to them. He would be on his own now at Hogwarts.
Sullen, scowling and terrified, Draco looked back at his mother. Narcissa was dressed in unrelieved black but in the latest fashion, of course. She was scornfully ignoring the Aurors who had been shadowing them ever since they had been forced to abandon the Manor and come to the city. For reasons known only to himself, Voldemort’s displeasure with Lucius had not extended to the rest of the family beyond burning the Manor to the ground. Draco repressed a shudder as he remembered that day, how the Dark Lord had actually expressed his regrets over their loss, telling Narcissa that he would make sure they continued to be well taken care of. Even Pettigrew had looked uncomfortable. As well he should; his master was as mad as a rabid dog.
His mother regarded him coldly for a moment before stepping forward and pulling him to her. They were of a height, now, and she spoke quickly into his ear. “Remember what I told you. Watch and listen. Do what you can to make yourself valuable to everyone, and then you will be able to set them one against the other. There will be more than two sides to this war, Draco, I promise.”
Abruptly she stepped back from him, the very picture of a grieving widow sending her only child away. His mother had always been good at keeping up appearances. She’d accepted Voldemort’s well-wishes with grace, even subservience. But her eyes were cold then, as they were cold now, watching Draco board the train, and he felt briefly reassured as he went to find an empty compartment.
3. October 26th, 2004
After fleeing King’s Cross, Draco walked north through Muggle London, heading for the Wizarding neighbourhood on Litter Alley. It was a dodgy part of town in his memory, but more benign than Knockturn Alley. He rather wondered what had happened to Knockturn Alley during the exile. He wondered what would happen to it now, with the amnesty. He wondered how much longer he could stand thinking about anything, and so he went to the pub.
“Guess the sun’s o’er the yardarm somewhere, innit, mate?” asked the barman rhetorically, pouring him the glass of firewhiskey he asked for. The barman was very carefully not recognizing him, as were two of the other customers. The third was snoring softly on the bar. Draco paid with French galleons, made sure to short the barman when he didn’t comment on the foreign coin, and retreated with his whiskey to the booth in the corner.
He didn’t drink at first. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the letter from the Ministry and smoothed it out on the table. “Let it be known that all parties… granted general pardon for crimes committed during… granted permission to return…” When the letter had arrived, and when he’d felt the geas lift as he read it, he hadn’t stopped to think. He hadn’t even packed. He’d gone to Calais, and booked himself into the first available slot for cross-Channel apparition. Without the opposing force of the spell, the urge that had been building for the last four years had been irresistible.
Now though, he was going to get his bearings. Why had the amnesty been granted? Why was he now allowed back? Why had he come? He knew better than to think that he would be able to settle into the life he’d once expected to have. The Manor was gone, as was his father’s money. His mother had left him enough to get by before she had retired to Geneva, and he could check what had been done with her townhouse. Presumably the government had taken it, but the letter implied that certain losses might be reimbursed.
Really, his life here would not be materially improved from the one he’d been living on the Continent. In some ways it would be much worse. He’d been able to live peacefully, cataloguing the books that his parents had been able to smuggle out of England. It had been long enough that the exiles were, not accepted, but tolerated and overlooked. There, he had developed anonymity. As the scene at the station had proven, an absence of the same duration had not had the same softening effect. He would be able to count on infamy here.
Leaning back into the worn and stained upholstery, Draco toyed with his glass, still not drinking. Really, infamy was just a variation on a theme he was growing used to.
4. September-October, 1996
The first week at Hogwarts had been a nightmare, but Draco found solace in the fact that, although deprived of the advantages he had usually enjoyed, he was not completely incapable. After a few false starts he had found that he had a knack for playing a universally despised martyr and for the spy work his mother had suggested. Now that he’d lost his importance, people disregarded him. Now that he was without an entourage, he could loiter unnoticed.
He had chosen the martyr’s role for two reasons. Firstly, if he could stand to suffer bravely and nobly for long enough, it was just the thing to tempt a bleeding heart Gryffindor. Secondly, a Slytherin of worth would see through it for what it was, and so it would serve him to find suitable members of his own House for future allegiances.
Millicent Bulstrode had been the first, catching his eye slyly before tripping him, rather ostentatiously, he thought, on the way into Potions, which they still shared with Gryffindor. There was a brief stir before Snape called everyone’s attention back to the front. He’d landed awkwardly, stinging the heel of his hand on the rough floor of the dungeon. He’d only lost his breath, though, as he got up. Potter was staring at him, and his green eyes were cold. Snape snapped at them both, and the moment passed, but Draco found himself distracted from his work. In the past five years, he had spent more time than anyone facing off with Potter, and the lack of heat was new. Something had changed. Perhaps the rumours were true, and his late Uncle Sirius had been important to Potter. Or not. Perhaps Draco himself was no longer seen as a worthy adversary. The thought made him very suddenly furious. It didn’t last for long. The chill in those eyes was familiar. Draco thought of his mother and wondered.
It was after that look that Draco had given himself a clear mission. The most valuable commodity, to every side of the conflict, as either target or defence, was the Boy Who Lived. Therefore, he would gather as much information as he could on that topic. He would make Harry Potter his area of expertise.
At first, things didn’t go well. He had to suffer the indignity of being beaten by the Weasel on two separate occasions. The summer had taught him important lessons of patience, so he fought back only as much as was expected and didn’t suffer any irreparable damage. He didn’t like to think about the way that he actually fled from Longbottom, but it was important to weigh an adversary’s background against his apparent ineptitude, and Longbottom’s parents had been powerful Aurors in their day. Before Aunt Bellatrix and her Cruciatus. His nightmares were worse than usual that week. And Potter, Potter only ever deigned to notice him with a single piercing, cold look before leaving him to his followers. He started having new nightmares about that.
But things got better. He got a sense of the sixth-year Gryffindor schedule and learned how to work around it. He developed suspicions about the secret DADA tutorials that some people were attending. And he got the sense that all was not well with Potter. From what Draco could observe and overhear, he’d withdrawn from his larger circle of Gryffindor pals, and even his inner circle was worrying. Potter’s coursework improved, though, and he practiced his flying nearly every night.
At the end of September came the first Quidditch match of the year: Gryffindor versus Slytherin. Draco watched from the stands, having predictably lost his Seeker position. He found that he almost didn’t mind, as he could watch Potter without worrying about the Snitch. Potter’s Quidditch strategy had become more ruthless and, though Draco would have thought it impossible, more reckless. As the match progressed, he escaped a Bludger by leading it into the Slytherin Keeper, he punched a Slytherin Chaser who clipped the end of his broom (the foul was not caught by Madam Hooch), and he nearly beheaded himself on a goal post catching the Snitch. Afterwards he did join the celebrating team on the field, but there was a sharpness to his smile that Draco did not recall from earlier defeats.
And there was the merest whisper of a rumour that something had almost gone dreadfully wrong in one of those secret Defense tutorials.
Towards the end of the second week back, Draco had begun to spend most of his time in the library. By the end of the month, it had become his most common haunt, and he’d managed to claim one of the smaller tables between the History stacks. He had thought he would be able to insinuate himself with Granger, as she had a weakness for lost causes.
It was Potter himself, though, who Draco saw most often. He usually came in later in the evenings, most often heading directly for the Defense section. Sometimes Granger or Weasley were with him, but more and more often he was alone.
A week before Hallowe’en, just before dinner, Draco was looking for a book on the campaigns of Grindelwald when Potter stalked in, followed by Granger, who was whispering urgently to him. Potter seemed to be ignoring her, and headed into the stacks. Draco didn’t stop to consider, just followed them, keeping an aisle away.
He began to catch some of what Granger was saying. “Harry, you have to stop this… talk to someone… McGonagall, Dumbledore…”
At the mention of Dumbledore, Potter stopped walking, breathing heavily. Draco stopped where he was and listened.
“Dumbledore?” Potter asked, incredulously. “Hermione, do you even… I’m so sick of Dumbledore. He’s been running my life since I was born, did you know that?”
“Harry, that…”
“No, Hermione. It’s fine. I spent a lot of time thinking this summer, and I can almost understand it. But if I’m going to be his tool, his weapon, then I am going to do it right. No more falling for tricks and traps.”
“Harry, stop it…”
“Besides, if they’ve all decided that I’m their weapon, what does that make you? You said it yourself, books and cleverness, they’re just going to use you, Hermione. And Ron?”
Granger sounded like she was starting to cry, “Don’t, don’t…”
“He’ll be cannon fodder, just like Sirius.”
Draco could hear Granger crying outright as she fled. He found himself stunned, and although he was trying very hard to process the implications of what he had just heard, he was seized with the need to see Potter’s face. A small part of his mind weighed the possible advantages of confrontation, but it was mostly without thinking that he stepped around the shelves.
Potter had him back against the shelves with an arm across his throat faster than Draco would have thought possible. Being slightly shorter than Potter, this brought him up onto his toes. With his chin tilted up at an uncomfortable angle, he couldn’t help but look down his nose at the other boy. Ah. Those eyes were burning and Draco felt a fierce triumph.
“I should have known, Malfoy,” Potter hissed, his face only inches away, “you’ve been following me all year. Think to buy yourself back into Voldemort’s graces with me, somehow?” The last was punctuated with another shove against the bookcase. “I’m sure dear Aunt Bellatrix will be so happy to see you.”
This conflict was something Draco knew, easier than spying, truer than control. Disdaining his vulnerable position, he sneered back, “I see you’re still delusional, Potter. Do you really think that even the satisfaction of handing you over to the Dark Lord would make me forget what they did to my father? The look on my mother’s face when dear Aunt Bellatrix showed up at the door that night, giggling?”
The arm at his throat loosened, and Draco was able to stand comfortably again. “I’m so sorry to tell you, but you really haven’t got the lion’s share, if you’ll pardon the pun, of damage dealt by Bellatrix. Really, I think Longbottom outdoes us both.”
Potter had dropped him completely but had not stepped away, and Draco found that he could not stop. “You’re too busy being noble and sacrificing to notice that you aren’t the only one suffering. This war is going to be hell for everyone. Who are you to whine about control when all that the rest of us can do is try to stay alive until you or the Dark… until you or Voldemort finish it?”
There was a silence that seemed loud, considering that neither of them had raised their voices. Potter still had not stepped away and was holding him against the bookshelf with a hand on his chest. They were both panting and flushed as though they had been physically brawling. Potter was staring at him, lips parted and eyes dilated behind his glasses. For the first time all year, and Draco knew this, because he had been watching, damn it, he looked out of control. Having left his own behind at the mention of Bellatrix, or in the aisle behind him, or on the floor of the Potions dungeon, or years ago, really, Draco lifted his head and kissed those parted lips.
He wasn’t pushed away but pressed bodily again back into the bookshelf, the hand on his chest now clenched in his robes and another hand in his hair, lips angling down on his own. His thoughts whirled with competing ideas, the satisfied of course, of course! jarring against each calculation of advantage. Already he could feel betrayal sparking behind his eyes. But then he brought own hands up into rough hair, and pressed up into the body leaning over him…
And then he thought nothing for a long time.
Part 2