FIC: The Pure and Simple Truth, part 5
Author: ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lettered
Title: The Pure and Simple Truth
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, but this fic might as well be gen. Besides Harry and Draco, mostly canon pairings
Rating: PG
Warnings: No porn. No plot. No, really!
Summary: Harry, Draco, and Hermione go to a pub. Harry, Draco, and Pansy go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Pansy, and Hermione go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Hermione and Ron go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Hermione, Ron, and Pansy―you guessed it―go to a pub. I could go on. In fact, I did. Harry, Draco, Hermione, Pansy, Ron, Blaise, Luna, Goyle, Neville, and Theodore Nott go to a pub. In various combinations.
Word Count: 70,000 It happened by accident.
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling wrote Harry Potter, in case you didn’t know, andtalekayler wrote Nunquam Securus
Previous
26 August, 2004
“Working late?”
Harry turned around from his desk.
Malfoy was leaning against the edge of the partition on Harry’s cubicle, smirking. Ever since he had made up with Hermione, Malfoy had been in a good mood with everyone. Except Pansy.
“Give me a second,” Harry said, and turned back to his desk.
Malfoy’s desk downstairs was a much neater affair. Harry had scrolls, evidence bags, and coffee mugs everywhere. Still, though, Harry had noticed Malfoy didn’t exactly line up his quills. Sometimes Harry had noticed random scraps of paper on Malfoy’s desk, and once or twice, origami.
Harry had always thought Malfoy must be a very meticulous sort of person, because of the things he wore and the way he looked. However, having got to know Pansy, and knowing Blaise now a little better too, Harry was starting to think that everyone Malfoy had known and grown up with had dressed like that, and that compared to them, Malfoy was just a little more . . . messy. A little more casual, maybe. Not compared to the rest of the world―just compared to them. Harry had thought that the first time he had seen Blaise Zabini.
He thought that still. He didn’t know why he thought about it so much.
Malfoy was just leaning there so against his wall, looking very relaxed, one hand in his pocket, in his cream-coloured suit.
Harry had planned on writing the final line on his report. Instead, he shoved a bunch of scrolls in a drawer and tapped the evidence bags with his wand, then stood up. “Okay,” he said, “let’s go.”
“I like your filing system,” Malfoy said, as they walked.
Harry snorted. “Organization is Hermione’s hobby.”
Malfoy smirked some more. “What are your hobbies?”
They got on the lift. It was empty; Malfoy had been right―Harry had had to work a little late.
“Saving the world, going to the pub.” Harry smirked back at Malfoy. “What else is there to do?”
Malfoy rolled his eyes, but couldn’t seem to help a smile. “Your life is fascinating.”
“Sorry I’m not dramatic enough for you, Malfoy.”
Malfoy looked at the lift doors a little while. “Hermione and Ron are still fighting, aren’t they?”
Harry’s smile fell away. “Yeah, they . . . yeah.”
“I hope it gets sorted,” Malfoy said.
“Me too.”
The lift dinged, and they stepped out. “When we fought,” Malfoy said, “I thought it was all going to . . . Not just Hermione and I. I mean everything. Me and Ron, and . . . you. The way things are with us.”
“What?” said Harry, mostly because he was pretty sure there hadn’t been any verbs in that sentence.
Malfoy didn’t look at him. “I thought it was all going to come apart. That there wouldn’t be any pub.”
“Gee, Malfoy.” Harry grinned at him. “You really do like that spinach dip.”
“You,” Malfoy began. He tried to glare at him, but a little smile played at the corner of his mouth. He looked away. When he looked back, the smile had got bigger, and he wasn’t trying to hide it any more. He rolled his eyes. “You are such a tosser.”
“I try,” said Harry. They walked over to the Floo. “Is Pansy coming?” he asked, before they went in.
Malfoy’s smile went away. “No.”
Harry thought about asking about it, but decided not to. He thought, just maybe, he was learning to understand Draco Malfoy. It was a strange and intricate process.
Harry didn’t really mind it at all.
*
When they got to the pub, Hermione was there. It was a lot like old times, until Blaise showed up.
“Draco,” he said. “Harry. And Miss Granger, how delightful to see you again.”
“Oh,” said Hermione. “Zabini?”
Harry had assumed Hermione had got reacquainted with Blaise too, as Hermione seemed to be friends with all of Malfoy’s friends. Apparently, she hadn’t.
“You must call me Blaise.” Blaise was holding a cocktail. Putting it on the table, he sat down across from Harry, next to Malfoy.
“Pansy said I should pop in,” said Blaise.
“Pansy.” Malfoy’s voice was stiff.
Hermione looked vaguely alarmed. “Is she coming? Here?” She suddenly looked like she wanted to be anywhere else.
“No, she’s having a massage.” Looking around the table, Blaise’s brows raised in concern. Maybe he saw Hermione’s discomfort, or Malfoy's annoyance. “However, now that I can honestly report I have seen you, I’m not obliged to stay.” His head tilted. “Shall I leave?”
“No,” said Harry, because it wasn’t like it was Hermione or Malfoy’s table.
It also wasn’t like everyone was fighting with Pansy.
“Hermione and Malfoy are going to talk politics,” Harry said. “You can distract me.”
“I am very distracting.” Blaise grinned, then turned to Hermione. “You’re looking very well, Miss Granger. I’ve been hearing so much about you.”
“Oh. Um,” said Hermione. “Call me Hermione.”
“How’s the fishing been?” Harry asked.
“Superb,” said Blaise. “I have had a few very promising nibbles in the last week or so.”
Apparently satisfied that Pansy wouldn’t suddenly appear, Hermione looked interested. “You fish? I’m not sure I’ve heard of anyone fishing in the wizarding world. I suppose I thought it wouldn’t take on as a hobby, since you can just summon fish out of the water with a wand.”
“Oh, but I never use force,” said Blaise, looking slightly appalled. “That takes the fun out of it. Patience and persistence require finesse.” He sipped his figtini. “I’m quite fond of finesse.”
“My dad used to say the same thing,” said Hermione. “Where do you fish, then?”
“The usual places.” Blaise gave her a pleasant smile. “Ballrooms, drawing-rooms, Hyde Park when the weather is fine, estate picnics. Where did your father fish?”
“Er,” said Hermione. “Generally in a boat, I think.”
“I don’t think Blaise would like boats,” said Harry.
“Oh?” Blaise raised a flawless brow.
Harry just smiled. “It would cut the algae.”
Blaise threw his head back and laughed. Hermione looked confused, and Malfoy looked sullen. Harry explained to Hermione, “Blaise photosynthesises for a living.”
“Er.” Hermione looked a little uncomfortable. She always looked that way when she corrected people's factual errors, but it actually hadn't convinced her to stop doing it. “Photosynthesis is what plants do.”
“Yeah,” said Harry. “Blaise does what plants do. He lies around in the sun all day.”
“So long as I’m indoors with the blinds sufficiently drawn,” said Blaise. “Too much sun would ruin my complexion.”
Harry snorted. “Your complexion is perfect.”
Blaise smiled brilliantly. “How good of you to notice. It is rather, isn’t it?”
It was. Blaise’s dark skin was smooth and flawless, just like his bald head was smooth and flawless, just like his full lips were sensual and flawless―just like all of him, really. Harry couldn’t help but notice.
Harry couldn’t help but notice also that Malfoy kept pushing his Brussels sprouts around his plate, and wasn’t saying anything.
“You don’t make your own food, do you?” Hermione said. “That’s what plants do.”
“I do differ significantly from a plant on the matter of production,” Blaise said.
“Blaise tries not to produce anything,” Harry said. “Especially on his own.”
“You understand me so well,” Blaise said. “I would much rather survive on other people’s carbohydrates. Though most anyone is free to sample mine, of course.” He smiled at Harry.
Harry felt himself blush, because Blaise looked the way he did, and because carbohydrates suddenly sounded like a much dirtier word than it ever should have, really. “You should have been a fungus,” he muttered.
Blaise just drank his cocktail. “I thought algae were fungi. I’m determined to live off others, if that’s what you mean.”
“Algae are bacteria,” Malfoy said, jabbing a sprout.
“It’s true,” said Hermione. “Cyanobacteria used to be considered algae. They’re quite interesting, really. They’re one of the oldest organisms, and―and . . . well, I think they’re cool,” she said weakly.
“They changed the composition of the atmosphere.” Malfoy jabbed another sprout. “We learned it in Herbology.”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Hermione.
“I never paid attention in Herbology,” said Blaise. “I don’t care for dirt at all.”
“I didn’t pay attention much either,” Harry said.
Malfoy kept on jabbing sprouts.
“I liked it,” said Hermione.
“You liked everything,” Harry pointed out.
“It’s no surprise,” Blaise told Hermione. “You excelled in every subject. But that can only be a very small part of your great success since school. I have been hearing such tremendous things about your sanctuary project.”
“Oh,” said Hermione, and blushed. These things just happened around Blaise. “It’s―it’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” said Malfoy, jabbing another sprout.
“Oh,” Hermione said again, flustered. “Well, Draco’s right; it’s not, of course. I mean, we have . . . three trolls there now who are learning to speak, and a small flock of fairies practising rudimentary spells. Nothing dangerous, of course, but they used to have quite beautiful magic. And we have three gnomes who have signed up for a gardening seminar―you know, so they can build their own places to live. They used to do that on their own, in the histories and . . .” She blushed again. “Draco volunteers. So does Harry.”
“What do volunteers do?” Blaise asked.
Harry was pretty sure Blaise was asking just to be polite, but it was actually something he really liked about Blaise. He might proclaim, in his amused, self-deprecating way, that he did everything for the sake of good form, but―well, his form was very good. He always seemed interested in other people and asked incisive questions about what they did.
Harry had not heard Blaise insult anyone since sixth year.
“I’m working with the fairies,” Harry said. “Defensive things, mainly, you know. Ways to protect themselves.”
“I could see where that would be quite useful,” said Blaise.
“Yeah.” Harry drank his pint. “Wizards treat them like pests, but we can learn a lot from them, actually.”
“Draco, what do you do?” Blaise asked.
Putting down his fork, Malfoy pushed his plate away. “Recruiting. Mostly Giants and werewolves.” He grimaced. “I have connections.”
He meant, of course, that Giants and certain groups of werewolves had sided with Voldemort.
Blaise’s brow furrowed. “But those are Beings.” He glanced at Hermione. “I thought the sanctuary was for Beasts?”
“It is,” said Malfoy, “but we’re working on Beast and Being relations. Besides, Beings aren’t being treated equally, either. Look at house-elves.” He glanced at Hermione, then back at his plate.
“I want house-elves to found a town,” Hermione said. “Draco says it would be cruel to free them all, but for the ones who are freed―they have no way of life except for serving other people, and the liberated ones go back to service because they have no alternative. Wouldn’t it be amazing if they could build their own town―make their own clothes―”
Blaise shook his head. “And you do all of this in your spare time. It already is amazing.”
“Well.” Hermione blushed again. “I work full-time in non-profits.”
“All six of them,” said Malfoy.
“We can always use more hands.” Hermione looked at Blaise in her eager way. “You could volunteer for anything you wanted.”
Malfoy snorted.
“Would there be any work involved?” Blaise said.
“Oh, tons.” Hermione grinned. “There’s teaching and recruitment, of course, like Draco and Harry, and Ron . . .” Hesitating, she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Well, he did planning, and lay-outs for the buildings. He picked the site actually, and there’s cleaning and supply restock, and―well, I imagine you’d be brilliant at something like PR―”
Blaise smiled kindly. “I never volunteer if there’s work to be done.”
“But . . .” Hermione looked startled. “That’s what volunteering is.”
Blaise’s smile was kinder still, and quite apologetic. “That’s why I never volunteer.”
“But . . .” Hermione trailed off again, frowning. “I thought you were on the Hogwarts Board of Directors.”
Harry was surprised. “You never told me that,” he said. Blaise just seemed so young.
“I didn’t volunteer,” said Blaise. “I was appointed.”
Hermione kept frowning. “But you don’t get paid.”
“Yes,” said Blaise, “but I do get to look very important.”
“But―”
“I don’t mean to disappoint you, Hermione,” Blaise said quietly. “I do my best to be a completely useless person.”
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “No, you’re not. You’re just lazy.” He turned on Blaise. “And I don’t see why, because if you would just make the effort, you could be so bloody―”
“Draco,” was all Blaise said.
Frowning, Malfoy turned back to his plate.
It sounded like a discussion that had happened many times before, but that wasn’t going to happen again tonight.
Blaise sighed a little. “Your project sounds delightful,” he told Hermione, “and you are a brilliant young witch. You are still attached to Mr Weasley, I presume?”
“I,” said Hermione, then stopped.
“I’m teaching Ron to play Go,” Malfoy said, filling the silence. He sounded quite smooth, not at all piqued, as he had been several moments before.
Harry thought that it was for Hermione’s sake.
“Is that so?” Blaise didn’t look at Hermione, giving her time to stare moodily at Malfoy’s plate.
“I would think Weasley would be quite good,” Blaise went on. “Go is so strategic.”
“You play?” Harry said, surprised.
“Blaise was the one who taught me,” Malfoy said.
Blaise smiled. “You were a brilliant student.”
“Yes.” Malfoy frowned. “Well. That was a long time ago.”
“I’ve been wanting to learn to play,” Harry said, because Malfoy was shifting uncomfortably, but he wasn’t looking at his plate. He was looking at Blaise. “It sounds interesting.”
“I could teach you,” Blaise said.
“Oh.” For some reason, Harry couldn’t stop himself from looking over in Malfoy’s direction, and for some other reason―or maybe the same reason―he couldn’t get his eyes past Malfoy’s plate.
Everyone found Malfoy’s plate fascinating, apparently, with its poor, murdered Brussels sprouts.
Harry turned back to Blaise. “Yeah,” he said. “That would be really cool.”
“Excellent,” said Blaise. “We must meet for gyokuro. I know an excellent tea shop; they keep a board behind the counter.”
“I don’t know what gyokuro is,” Harry said, and had to stop himself from glancing at Malfoy’s plate again.
“Green tea,” Malfoy said. His voice was quite gentle.
Harry looked at Malfoy then, finally, and Malfoy looked back. His grey eyes looked very clear. His long, straight nose was actually a little too long, and there was already a line beside his mouth.
He wasn’t nearly as beautiful as Blaise.
Harry looked down at his pint. “Oh,” was all he said.
“I’m sure you’ll love it, Harry.” Blaise’s voice was encouraging. “It’s exquisite.”
“Okay,” Harry said.
“Did you see Wang’s statement on Yaxley’s renewed sentence?” Malfoy’s voice was back to normal. He turned toward Hermione.
“Yes,” Hermione said.
Malfoy drank his fizzy water. “You don’t think it a little harsh?”
Hermione looked at him in surprise. “Yaxley was a Death Eater.”
“I know,” Malfoy said.
“I just mean, he―he fought in both of the wars.” Hermione twirled her hair around a finger. “Don’t you think he deserves a full term?”
Shaking his head, Malfoy said. “I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve the sentence. The sentence is fine. I don’t want any of us―of them getting off easy. What I mean is, the way Wang talks about it.”
“She’s just―”
“I smell politics,” Blaise said, leaning in.
“You’re just like Pansy and Ron,” Harry said. “And everyone, come to think of it. They don’t like politics.”
“But you do,” Blaise said.
“Oh, no,” Harry reassured him. “I hate them.”
“You didn’t look like you hated them, just now.”
Harry laughed. “That’s what Pansy says.” He glanced at Hermione and Malfoy, who, as usual, were still in earnest conversation. “Hate is the wrong word, maybe. I just don’t know what to do with them. I can volunteer at the sanctuary; I can hunt dark wizards; I can teach defence spells. Those are the kinds of things I’m good at.”
Blaise dropped his slice of orange into the remains of his cocktail. “You sell yourself short.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do,” Blaise said. “Draco says you should be on the Wizengamot.”
Harry stared at him. “That’s Hermione.”
“I’m sure it was Draco. Before tonight, Hermione and I hadn’t spoken since Hogwarts.” Blaise drank the rest of his cocktail. “But that’s not true. Hermione and I never spoke at Hogwarts at all.”
Harry shook his head. “I meant―Draco says Hermione should be on the Wizengamot. Not me.”
“No.” Blaise slid his figtini glass to the side. “He thinks Hermione should be Minister. He thinks that you should be Chief Warlock, on the Wizengamot; he thinks that Mr Weasley should be Head Auror. He thinks that I should head the Department of International Magical Cooperation. This is his vision of the future. Two decades, he says.”
“That’s . . . ambitious,” said Harry.
“He’s always been ambitious,” said Blaise. “So have I, but not at all in the same way. He is high-minded, our Draco.”
“What’s he going to be?”
Blaise raised a brow. “Pardon?”
“You said he says Hermione should be Minister, and all those other things. What does Malfoy think he should be?”
There was something much like pity in Blaise’s eyes. “He thinks he should never, ever be forgiven for the things he’s done.”
Harry felt ill. “That’s not fair.”
“When has Draco ever been fair?”
“I meant―” Harry swallowed hard. “That’s not right.”
Blaise looked more pitying still. “When has Draco ever been right?”
Harry grit his teeth. “Lots of times.”
“I do apologize, Harry.” Blaise’s voice was soft. “I didn’t mean to offend.”
“I know.” Blaise never meant to offend. Harry’s shoulders slumped. “I just―I want . . . ”
I want this world to be better, was what he was going to say, but he didn’t say it.
Instead he looked at Draco Malfoy.
Blaise looked at him for a while, his expression thoughtful. “I ran into Miss Ginerva Weasley the other day,” he said, his voice rather curious.
Harry pulled his eyes away. “Where?”
“A charity benefit. There were several Quidditch stars.”
Harry frowned. He still felt a little defensive. “Ginny hasn’t got a hook.”
Blaise raised a brow. “Excuse me?”
“She hasn’t got a hook. She isn’t dangling in the water, and she’s not a fish. She isn’t a plant, either.”
“This is excellent news.” Blaise gave him a self-deprecating smile. “I may pretend otherwise, but really, I prefer primates.”
“She’s a woman,” Harry said.
Blaise’s lips twitched. “I think I heard her roar.”
“I’m just saying. You hurt her,” Harry took a gulp of lager, “and I’ll kill you.”
“How unpleasant.”
Suddenly, Harry grinned. “Yeah.”
Head tilted to one side, Blaise looked at him a little while. “Will you humour me? I’m confused about something.”
“Sure.”
Blaise pressed his lips together, and went on looking at him. At last he asked, “What on earth makes you think I stand a chance with Miss Weasley?”
Harry shrugged. “Didn’t say you did. I just said you better watch your back.”
Blaise started to open his mouth, and then stopped. It was the first time Harry had seen him look uncertain.
It was kind of awesome, actually.
“You’re not one for idle threats,” was all Blaise said.
“About Ginny I am.” Harry finished off his pint. “Don’t tell her I said so, though. She’ll kill me.”
“That sounds undignified.”
“Yeah.” Harry leered. “Ginny can be really undignified.”
Blaise smirked. “Why don’t you tell me all about it?”
Harry leered some more. “I’m sure you’d like that.”
Blaise smirked some more. “I have no doubt.”
“What would he like?” said Hermione, and the smirking and the leering stopped.
Hermione and Malfoy had been quiet for several moments, actually, and Malfoy was frowning at his plate again. Harry was beginning to suspect he didn’t like Brussels sprouts nearly as much as he claimed to.
“I would like to know how you achieved such beauty and grace, while at the same time commanding such wisdom and erudition,” Blaise told Hermione easily. “I find I can only ever manage three things at once. One always has to go.”
Hermione blushed. “That’s not what you were saying.”
“So then it falls to choosing what I should sacrifice,” said Blaise. “I generally discard the most unappealing one.”
“Wisdom isn’t unappealing,” Hermione said.
“How wise you are.” Blaise smiled. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Pansy’s right,” Harry said, laughing. “You’re an arse.”
“Does anyone want more drinks?” Malfoy stood up. He looked sort of tired. “I’m going to the bar.”
“I’ll go with you.” Harry started to get up, but Blaise put a light hand on his.
“Allow me,” he said, and turned to Malfoy.
Without really looking at either one of them, Malfoy turned and headed in the direction of the bar.
“I’m worried about him,” said Hermione, looking after them as well.
“About Malfoy?”
Hermione nodded, tucking her hair again. “He’s still fighting with Pansy, and it’s because of me.”
Harry glanced toward the bar. “I think Malfoy and Pansy have their own problems.”
“I suppose,” Hermione said. “I just―I never thought this would work. He and I, I mean. Him and Ron. Him and you. Blaise and you. You and―and Pansy.”
“Slytherins and Gryffindors,” Harry said.
Hermione nodded. “I mean, when you put it that way, it sounds so―so childish. We’re not at Hogwarts any more, you know? Those things shouldn’t matter. You want them not to matter.”
“They don’t matter,” Harry said.
“Sometimes they do, though.”
Harry shook his head. “Not if you work at it. You’re the one who always said that.”
Hermione turned to him with great big eyes. “I’ve always been good at saying things. You’re the one who’s good at doing things.”
Moving her hair a little, Harry put his hand on her shoulder. He knew that even though she was talking about Malfoy, she was also thinking about Ron.
She wasn’t having a very good time of it.
“I think you’re doing great,” Harry said.
“Oh, Harry.” Hermione smiled up at him. “I think you’re doing great, too.”
* * *
23 September, 2004
“Fancy meeting you here,” Malfoy said, stepping inside the lift at the Ministry.
“Hey, Malfoy,” Harry said.
“I just keep running into you. Are you following me?”
Harry just raised his brows. “Do you want me to?”
“I think you’ve done enough of that, don’t you?”
Harry searched his face, but he couldn’t find anything in it that looked like resentment over sixth year. The only thing he could see was a certain flavour of light-hearted teasing, which had been there quite often when they began this thing, but now came and went. Harry turned back to the lift door. “You liked it.”
“Hardly.” The lift dinged, and putting his nose into the air, Malfoy stepped out. “You just couldn’t stay away.”
“I was just trying to find out why you combed your hair that way,” Harry said, following Malfoy out.
Malfoy’s nose went farther into the air. “I was a punctilious child.”
“You mean you were a fussy child.”
“How can you even talk about my hair?”
Harry snorted, stopping beside the Fountain of the Brethren. “Just because I wasn’t punctiliously coifed. Besides.” He glanced at Malfoy’s hair. It swept softly across Malfoy’s brow. “You’re not at all punctilious now.”
Malfoy’s eyes went slightly darker, hand tightening on the strap of his bag. He looked away. “Am too punctilious,” was all he said.
“I invited Neville.” Harry started walking toward the Floo, but stopped when Malfoy didn’t come up beside him. When he turned back, Malfoy had gone a shade paler.
“Longbottom?”
Harry smiled. “You do remember him, don’t you?”
Malfoy chewed the inside of his cheek. “I’ve suddenly remembered.” He turned back to the lift and paused.
Harry came back toward him. “What?”
Malfoy glanced at him. “I―I have to send an owl.”
As he started walking back toward the lift, Harry followed him. “Hey. Wait.” Reluctantly, Malfoy paused. “What’s wrong?” Harry asked.
“Nothing. I―” Malfoy glanced at Harry again. His knuckles were white on the strap. “I have to send an owl.”
Harry stepped closer. “What is it?”
Colour flared in Malfoy’s cheeks, hot and pink. He lifted his eyes to Harry’s. “I said it’s nothing.”
“You can tell me,” Harry said.
“No, I bloody well can’t!” Malfoy shouted, then looked appalled. “I―I have to go.” Whirling on his heel, he made it halfway to the lift. Then he stopped in the middle of the Atrium. He didn’t turn around.
Malfoy was a long slim line, looking like a string strung tightly between the floor and something a little over six feet off the ground. The string had just been strummed, and was waiting, now, to still.
Harry went over to him. “I didn’t mean you had to tell me,” Harry said, in case it was his fault. “I just meant that you could.”
“Greg was going to come tonight,” Malfoy said almost immediately. He still didn’t turn around. “I have to owl him to tell him not to.”
Harry just looked at him, the strong curve of Malfoy’s jaw, his hand clutched to his stupid strap as though it were a life line. “Why can’t he come?” Harry asked finally, when Malfoy just stood there.
“You weren’t there.” Malfoy turned to him slowly. “Seventh year at Hogwarts.”
Busy saving the world, Harry almost quipped, but didn’t.
Malfoy shook his hair out of his eyes. “Longbottom and Greg, they―they shouldn’t be in a room together.”
“Why?” Harry said again.
“Greg cast the Cruciatus Curse on Longbottom.”
“Oh,” was all Harry could think to say.
“More than once,” Malfoy said.
“Oh,” Harry said again, because he was still coming up blank.
“I’ll―I’ll go write that owl,” Malfoy said, and began to turn away.
“Wait,” Harry said.
Again, Malfoy didn’t turn around, but he did stop. “You weren’t there.”
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“Potter.” Malfoy did turn then. He looked miserable. “What could you possibly say?”
Harry looked at him again. As Malfoy had got older his bright white hair had been shot through with streaks the colour of dishwater, and his long, lean hands were a little bony. Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone quite as good looking. Even Blaise Zabini.
“You were going to cast Cruciatus on me,” Harry said.
Malfoy went three shades paler.
Harry could hear the Fountain of the Brethren, the water splashing into the pool at the bottom.
“I didn’t manage it,” Malfoy said, his voice quite low.
“No,” Harry said. “Instead, I sliced you up in ribbons.”
Malfoy looked away. “That’s different.”
“There was blood everywhere,” Harry said. “I’d never seen that much blood. I watched people die; I watched them get murdered. But I’d never seen so much blood as I did then.” He stepped closer. “I remember the way it smelled.”
Malfoy stepped away. “That’s different.”
“How is it different?” Harry pushed his glasses up. “Tell me how that’s any different.”
“Longbottom didn’t do anything,” Malfoy said. “Greg just did it because―”
“Because people picked on him,” Harry said. “They picked on him for being stupid and spoiled and fat.”
“That doesn’t make it―”
“No.” Harry stepped closer again. “Nothing is ever going to make what I did to you right.”
Stubbornly, Malfoy shook his head. “Longbottom didn’t do anything,” he said again. “I know what Greg’s been through better than you do, and that’s why―but Longbottom never did anything.” He lifted his eyes. “No, in fact, Longbottom did a lot of things. He took detentions for the younger ones; he protected people. He stood up instead of giving in. He only ever did the right thing. He didn’t deserve how I―how we treated him. He didn’t deserve any of it.”
Harry just looked at him. “Malfoy,” he said quietly, after a long moment, “you think you deserved it?”
Malfoy looked away, and Harry had his answer.
Harry wanted to touch him; he just didn’t know how or where he wanted to. He could take Malfoy’s hand, but that was―sort of intimate; he could pat Malfoy’s shoulder, but it wasn’t intimate enough. He thought about Malfoy’s elbows―he thought about them a lot, actually. He’d thought about them before, and how it was weird that he never saw Malfoy’s elbows, because Malfoy always wore long sleeves, and there was just that one time Malfoy had rolled one up.
What Harry really wanted to do was touch the side of Malfoy’s face. He wanted to cup Malfoy’s jaw in his hand and touch his hair with fingertips, brush his mouth with thumb, and make him understand.
“No one deserves that.” Harry shoved his hands deep down in his pockets, balling them into fists. “People deserve trials and sentencing. Sometimes they deserve prison; they may even deserve to be Kissed; who knows about that. But no one deserves to be cut up like that. No one, Malfoy. No matter what the reason.”
“Self-defence.”
“You think what I did was self-defence?”
Malfoy looked away again. “No.”
“You disable someone in self-defence. You stun someone or disarm them. You don’t do what I did. I was trying to hurt you.”
“I was a Death Eater,” Malfoy said. “I have the Mark, Potter.”
“No,” said Harry, suddenly frustrated. “Let me, for once. I was stupid. I was cruel. I never meant to hurt you the way I did, but I’m the one who fucked up. That time, it wasn’t you. You didn’t deserve it.”
“What do I deserve?” Malfoy’s voice was also frustrated. “You think, just because a few of us can get along at a pub, everything is mended now? You think it’s just that simple?” He shook his hair back again. “It’s not. I almost killed Ron Weasley!”
“It was an accident.”
“Because I was trying to kill someone else! It was murder I was doing, Potter, pure and simple.” Malfoy was nearly shaking. “Tell me, what do I deserve?”
The water fall of the Fountain of the Brethren sounded a lot like rain.
“A second chance,” Harry said.
Malfoy just shook his head. “It’s not going to work. You weren’t there seventh year.”
Harry thought about it some, then decided to risk it. “Remember when I was worried about Ron not getting along with you?”
“This is different.”
“You keep saying that,” Harry said, “but it’s actually not at all.”
“Yes, it is,” Malfoy said. “Ron is your friend. Greg is my responsibility.”
Harry wanted to touch him again, just then, but the way he wanted to do it, it wouldn’t be what Malfoy deserved. It would be something that couldn’t be earned at all, and Malfoy obviously didn’t understand that.
“Malfoy,” Harry said, “you’re not responsible for anyone but you.”
Malfoy looked away again, and Harry thought of the way Malfoy had clamped down on Greg’s arm when he’d begun arguing with Hermione. That hadn’t looked like responsibility. It had looked like reliability, like Malfoy was drawing strength by Greg just being there beside him. It had looked like Malfoy knew he was there, without even looking, knew Greg would always be there.
Harry hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but he thought about it now.
“You always think things are going to work out,” Malfoy said.
Harry frowned. “Not really, no.”
“That’s how you do the things you do.” Malfoy chewed the inside of his cheek. “You can just . . . leap the way you do because you think everything will be all right, and to hell with failure.”
Shrugging, Harry said, “Mostly I just don’t think at all.”
Malfoy just stood there.
“Hey,” Harry said. “That was funny. I made a joke. You can laugh; it’s okay.”
“I’m thinking about it,” Malfoy said, frowning.
“Don’t strain yourself.”
“I’m thinking I better go send that owl.”
“What about Neville?” Harry said. “He knows you’re going to be there. He agreed to it. You said it yourself; he’s a good person―”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“It doesn’t have to be. Please,” Harry said. “Trust me.”
Malfoy rolled his eyes in exasperation. “This isn’t an issue of trust, Potter.”
“Yes, it is. Trust me.” Harry stepped closer. “Trust this.”
Malfoy was wavering.
Harry reached out.
Stepping away, Malfoy said, “At least owl Longbottom.”
Harry pushed his glasses up.
“At least warn him,” Malfoy said. “Then he can choose.” When Harry just stood there looking at him, he added, “Please.”
“Okay,” Harry said.
Malfoy looked over toward the Floo. “I’ve got to―I’ve got to speak to Greg. I’ll see you at the pub.”
“Okay,” Harry said, and went to send the owl.
*
When Harry got to the pub, Malfoy, Greg, and Hermione were there, but Neville wasn’t there yet.
When he did get there, he said, “Hello Harry, Hermione.” He turned slightly toward Malfoy and started to say, “Mal―” And then he saw Greg, and went very still. “―foy.”
Malfoy lurched out of his seat―just like he would have done for Hermione, or Luna, or any girl who wasn’t Pansy, except far less gracefully. He swallowed hard. “Longbottom.” His eyes were wide, as though with surprise.
“Yeah,” Neville said, and just kept looking at Greg.
“Hey, Longbottom,” Greg said, barely looking up, and started in on Malfoy’s fried onion.
“Goyle,” Neville said, and then didn’t say anything else.
Harry had invited Neville on a whim. Neville had been asking how things were going with Malfoy and the rest; he knew that Harry, Hermione and Ron had been going to the pub. Neville had said he thought it was great that Malfoy was trying to redeem himself, and that Harry could forgive him.
Harry had wanted to correct him, because that wasn’t how it happened, not at all, but he guessed that was how it looked to others. Maybe that was even how it looked to Malfoy. Harry had never thought about it that way.
The way Harry thought about it, they were all just going to the pub. When he’d asked Neville to come, it was for that reason―so that he could see it wasn’t Gryffindors and Slytherins, like Hermione had said.
It was just people.
Neville had hesitated. He’d said he didn’t know, that Malfoy had been a bit of a prat in school, but he’d said it in a teasing, slightly rueful way. Harry had said it would be different, and Neville had said okay.
At the time, he hadn't known that Greg was going to be there.
“You didn’t get my owl,” Harry said, slow realization dawning.
Neville was just looking at Greg, who was decimating Malfoy’s onion. “What?” he said, jerking his attention back to Harry.
“My owl.” Harry glanced at Malfoy, who was hovering, as Malfoy sometimes did. “Sorry,” Harry said, turning back to Neville. “I owled you to let you know Greg was coming along. I guess it didn’t get you.”
“I was in a cave in Devon,” Neville said. He looked at Harry blankly. “There was lichen.”
“Sorry,” Harry said. “Do you―you wanna sit down?”
Neville looked around the table, gaze lingering on Greg.
Meanwhile Malfoy looked like he was manfully trying to resist pulling Neville’s chair out for him.
Abruptly, Neville pulled out the chair and sat down. Malfoy sat down too, and Greg went on eating onion.
“There are some lichen with incredible magical properties,” Hermione said, her voice encouraging. “And Draco and I had an interesting conversation about cyanobacteria the other day.”
Neville looked at her, then turned to Malfoy slightly. “Did you?”
“It’s bacteria,” Malfoy said, then bit his lip.
“Cyanobacteria is bacteria.” Neville didn’t sound mean; he still just sounded sort of blank. And what he’d said wasn’t an insult, when Harry thought about it. It was just that it sort of seemed insulting, because it was Neville, and Neville wasn’t sarcastic with people, hardly ever. “That’s fascinating.”
“Yes,” said Malfoy.
“I like plants you can eat,” Greg said, and heaped the rest of Malfoy’s onion on his plate. “Except for vegetables. I don’t like those.”
“Onions are vegetables,” Hermione said. Her voice was still encouraging. “You like those.”
“Don’t be daft,” said Greg. “Onions aren’t vegetables.”
“What lichen was it?” Malfoy said.
“Map lichen.” Neville wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at Greg.
“But map lichen is relatively common,” Hermione said.
Neville turned back to her. “It was growing an actual map. In Chudleigh Cavern. We’re thinking it could be used in way-finding potions or . . . charms.” His attention wandering from Hermione, it settled on Greg once more.
“Longbottom,” Malfoy said.
“What?” Neville’s attention snapped to Malfoy. His voice was a little brusque.
“You could use it in a sachet,” Malfoy said helplessly. “The lichen.”
“Yes.” Visibly, Neville made an effort to be less short. “That’s a good idea. Do you . . . there are lovers’ talismans, which can always lead you back to the one you’re looking for.”
Malfoy said carefully, “It might even work in a compass.”
“Can you eat lichen?” Greg said, a hunk of onion in his hand.
“I can’t do this.” It was sudden and abrupt, the sound of Neville’s chair scraping against the floor. “I’m sorry Harry, Hermione. Sorry Malfoy.”
“Hey,” Greg said. “All I said was, ‘can you eat lichen?’”
“I know,” said Neville. “I’m sorry to you, too.”
“Hey, Neville,” Harry said, catching his hand.
“Is there anything wrong with eating lichen?” Greg said.
“No,” Hermione soothed, “it’s acceptable in many cultures.”
“Harry,” Neville said, “let go.”
“But―”
Neville pulled out of his grasp, and began to walk away.
“Hey.” Harry stood up as well, and suddenly Malfoy was there.
“Don’t,” he said.
“But―”
“I said you didn’t know what you were doing,” Malfoy said.
Greg's voice was rising. “I didn’t say anything about his grandmother or his stupid toad or anything. Draco said if I didn’t―”
“Neville’s just upset,” Hermione said.
“But Draco said―”
“He was just taken off guard,” Harry told Malfoy. Neville was nearing the door of the pub. “I’ll just go talk to him.”
Malfoy got in his way again. “Potter―”
“He just didn’t get the owl,” Harry said. “It’ll be okay.”
“I’ll go,” Malfoy said.
Sitting at the table, Hermione looked up from patting Greg’s hand. “Draco, that might not be such a good idea.”
“He said no one would get mad at me,” Greg said.
“No.” Malfoy looked at Greg, who looked fat, dumb, and very, very unhappy. “This is my fault. I’ll sort it.”
“It’s not,” Harry began.
“Don’t you dare, Potter,” Malfoy said. Whirling around, he went after Neville.
Harry started after him.
“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said, “don’t.”
“I’m just going to talk to him,” Harry said.
Hermione tucked her hair behind her ear. “Draco wants to make amends.”
“I talked about stupid plants,” Greg said. “What’s his problem, anyway?”
Harry looked at Hermione, pleading. “I told him he could trust me.”
“He wants to do it by himself,” Hermione said.
“He wants to do everything by himself!” Harry’s voice rose in frustration. Realizing he was doing it, he brought it back down again. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”
“Harry―”
“It doesn’t.” Harry headed toward the door.
“Why is everyone mad at me?” Greg was saying, as he left.
Hermione was likely patting him again. “They’re not; of course, they’re not.”
It was night, but it was not quite quiet; the light in the bookshop was still on and Horkin’s Haberdasher was hopping. The pub was a low murmur, spilling mullioned yellow light, and Malfoy had caught Neville just on the edge of the foot path. Malfoy’s face looked long and pinched, sickly in the oil glow of the street-lamp.
Hermione said they were nineteenth century, the street-lamps, and that the wizarding world really should stop using oil as fuel.
Set an example, she kept saying.
“Potter said―”
“Potter,” Neville said. “Malfoy, you can’t even call him by his first name!”
“Harry.” Malfoy’s voice was so low Harry barely heard it. “Harry thinks we can make it work.”
“I know what Harry thinks,” said Neville. “I know how Harry thinks. He thinks that just because something is right, it can be done. He’s always been that way.”
“No,” Malfoy said.
The only time Harry had seen Malfoy look like that, so completely open and horribly naked, was the time he’d rolled up his sleeve to show Hermione what he understood about atonement.
“He thinks that because something is right, people should try,” Malfoy said.
“I know you’re trying,” Neville said. “I can’t tell you just how damn optimistic it makes me feel. But bloody hell, Malfoy, you don’t think I’m trying too?”
“I know, but please, you’ve got to understand,” Malfoy said, and Harry realized he was seeing Draco Malfoy beg.
He’d seen Malfoy beg before. He’d seen him cower in front of Voldemort and he’d seen him say he didn’t know, right to Harry’s puffed up face.
But Harry felt like he hadn’t seen this. He hadn’t seen this, and it was―it was a violation to watch; it was disrespectful to Malfoy; it was shameful and offensive and unkind, Malfoy had once said, to watch, and Harry couldn’t stop.
“Greg’s always been―”
“I understand Gregory Goyle,” Neville said, and it was not without gentleness.
Harry forced himself to step out onto the pavement. “No, you don’t,” he said.
“Harry.” Neville turned toward him.
“You don’t,” Harry said again. “He didn’t know any better. He’s been made fun of his whole life, and he―”
“Harry,” Neville said again, very quietly. “Look at who you’re talking to.”
You weren’t, Harry wanted to say, but of course, Neville had been.
Harry looked at him―Neville, who’d grown up fit: sharp straight brows and sharp straight shoulders, sandy-coloured hair that was thick and wavy, a full strong mouth and long long legs. Neville, who was smart and brave and a better poster child for the war than Harry ever could be, because Harry got angry and hexed reporters, and Neville only ever could be kind, when he wasn’t slaying monsters. Neville Longbottom always had been the real hero, and no one had ever known it until the end, because he’d been round and clumsy and forgetful, and everyone had laughed.
“He can be forgiven,” Harry said instead.
“Harry.” Neville sounded like Hermione, when she got sad, and didn’t know how to break something to him. “I’ve forgiven everything. I did it years ago. I had to, or I’d have never made it.”
“Then why―”
“It’s just not that simple, Harry.” Neville’s eyes were full of pity. “I know you want it to be, but it isn’t.”
The murmur from the pub grew suddenly, and all three of them looked over toward the door, where Hermione and Greg had just stepped out of the pub.
“I don’t understand,” Harry said, turning back to Neville. “If we just―”
Neville’s voice was still quiet. “Do you have nightmares, Harry?”
Harry glanced at Malfoy, who looked so desolate there, under the street-lamp. Turning back to Neville, Harry said, “Yes.”
“Do you ever see faces in them?”
The face Harry saw most was Ginny’s.
It had started during seventh year, and just never really stopped. It had been the worst when they were together; he could never save her, ever. Nothing was enough.
Sometimes it was Hermione though, and sometimes it was Ron. Sometimes it was Luna, Lupin, or Dumbledore. More than once, it had been Snape.
Lately there had been Malfoy, and lots and lots of fire, and falling through a veil.
When Harry didn’t answer, Neville said, “I see faces in mine.”
He looked at Greg, and then back at Harry.
Back before he’d dreamed of Ginny, Harry had always dreamed of Voldemort.
“It’s taken me years,” Neville said, “to hear Hannah call out, and not to think she’s being tortured.”
“Neville,” Harry said.
Neville gave him his self-deprecating little smile. “It just needs more time, Harry. That’s all.”
“I get what he’s saying,” Greg said. “He’s saying he sees me in his nightmares.” He thought about it a while. “Man, that’s wicked cool.”
“I’m sorry,” Neville said, and Disapparated with a pop.
Harry looked at the spot where he had been, and it seemed like forever before he could lift his eyes. And yet, he couldn’t not lift them; it was as though his gaze was dragged by force, like a magnet, to where Draco Malfoy stood.
He looked pale and little in the light.
“That was an awful thing to say,” Hermione told Greg.
“Hey.” Greg just shrugged. “I was thinking positive.”
Malfoy’s shoulders slumped.
“Nightmares aren’t positive at all,” Hermione said.
“Sure they are.” Greg looked down at her. “I mean, not if you're having them, but if you’re in people’s nightmares it must mean you’re real tough. You know, like a head honcho.”
“Oh, Greg,” said Hermione. “How can you say such things?”
“Because they’re true,” Greg said angrily. He glared at Hermione, and then at Harry, and then at Malfoy. Looking at all of their faces seemed to make him angrier, and he turned back to Hermione. “I can’t help it if Longbum is a pussy.”
A wave of frustration rolled over Harry, and it felt a lot like fury. “Don’t call him that.”
“Hey.” Scowling, Greg stepped toward him. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
“What, you only listen to Malfoy, is that it?”
Greg stepped closer. “I don’t take orders from Malfoy. I don’t take orders from anyone!”
Harry grit his teeth. “Maybe you should.”
Greg’s chin jutted out. “I can do things for myself.”
“Maybe you really can’t, if you’re going to act like an idiot,” Harry said.
“If you touch one hair on his head―”
“Oh, Draco, no,” Hermione said.
“—I will cut your eyes out, and replace them with your balls.” Though Malfoy hadn’t come any closer, and hadn't raised his voice, Harry could hear him perfectly. His tone cut through the night air like a cold, sharp knife.
His wand was in his hand.
Only then did Harry realize he’d stepped toward Greg. He stepped back. “Malfoy, I―”
“You what?” Malfoy’s voice was cool and steady.
“I wasn’t going to touch any of Greg’s hair,” Harry said. “Not the one’s on his head or anywhere. You know that.”
“Do I? How?” Malfoy tilted his head. “Because I trust you?”
Harry had said that to him, in the Atrium. He’d made Malfoy do it; he’d been pig-headed and an arse, and he hadn’t listened. But if Malfoy would just―
“Calm down,” Harry said. “Did you even hear the things he was saying?”
“I heard them. Greg may say anything he pleases.”
“Damn straight,” Greg said.
Harry stepped toward Malfoy. “Draco―”
“Malfoy,” Malfoy said.
Harry stopped as though he’d been slapped in the face.
Putting away his wand, Malfoy walked over to Greg and took his arm. “Come on, Greg.”
Greg looked disappointed. “You’re not going to do that thing you said with his balls?”
Malfoy smiled a little at him. “Greg, do I ever do any of the things I say I’m going to do with people’s balls?”
“I dunno,” said Greg. “You’re the poof.”
“Draco,” Hermione said, “wait.”
“Granger,” said Malfoy, “for once just mind your own business.”
“Oh.” Hermione bit her lip, her eyes filling with tears.
“Cheer up,” Malfoy said. “Potter here says everything is going to be all right.”
“You don’t have to drag me,” Greg said, because Malfoy was dragging him.
“Come along.” Malfoy put his arm around Greg, looked at Harry, and Disapparated them both.
“Well,” Harry told the air. “That went well.”
* * *
Next
lettered Title: The Pure and Simple Truth
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, but this fic might as well be gen. Besides Harry and Draco, mostly canon pairings
Rating: PG
Warnings: No porn. No plot. No, really!
Summary: Harry, Draco, and Hermione go to a pub. Harry, Draco, and Pansy go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Pansy, and Hermione go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Hermione and Ron go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Hermione, Ron, and Pansy―you guessed it―go to a pub. I could go on. In fact, I did. Harry, Draco, Hermione, Pansy, Ron, Blaise, Luna, Goyle, Neville, and Theodore Nott go to a pub. In various combinations.
Word Count: 70,000 It happened by accident.
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling wrote Harry Potter, in case you didn’t know, and
talekayler wrote Nunquam SecurusPrevious
26 August, 2004
“Working late?”
Harry turned around from his desk.
Malfoy was leaning against the edge of the partition on Harry’s cubicle, smirking. Ever since he had made up with Hermione, Malfoy had been in a good mood with everyone. Except Pansy.
“Give me a second,” Harry said, and turned back to his desk.
Malfoy’s desk downstairs was a much neater affair. Harry had scrolls, evidence bags, and coffee mugs everywhere. Still, though, Harry had noticed Malfoy didn’t exactly line up his quills. Sometimes Harry had noticed random scraps of paper on Malfoy’s desk, and once or twice, origami.
Harry had always thought Malfoy must be a very meticulous sort of person, because of the things he wore and the way he looked. However, having got to know Pansy, and knowing Blaise now a little better too, Harry was starting to think that everyone Malfoy had known and grown up with had dressed like that, and that compared to them, Malfoy was just a little more . . . messy. A little more casual, maybe. Not compared to the rest of the world―just compared to them. Harry had thought that the first time he had seen Blaise Zabini.
He thought that still. He didn’t know why he thought about it so much.
Malfoy was just leaning there so against his wall, looking very relaxed, one hand in his pocket, in his cream-coloured suit.
Harry had planned on writing the final line on his report. Instead, he shoved a bunch of scrolls in a drawer and tapped the evidence bags with his wand, then stood up. “Okay,” he said, “let’s go.”
“I like your filing system,” Malfoy said, as they walked.
Harry snorted. “Organization is Hermione’s hobby.”
Malfoy smirked some more. “What are your hobbies?”
They got on the lift. It was empty; Malfoy had been right―Harry had had to work a little late.
“Saving the world, going to the pub.” Harry smirked back at Malfoy. “What else is there to do?”
Malfoy rolled his eyes, but couldn’t seem to help a smile. “Your life is fascinating.”
“Sorry I’m not dramatic enough for you, Malfoy.”
Malfoy looked at the lift doors a little while. “Hermione and Ron are still fighting, aren’t they?”
Harry’s smile fell away. “Yeah, they . . . yeah.”
“I hope it gets sorted,” Malfoy said.
“Me too.”
The lift dinged, and they stepped out. “When we fought,” Malfoy said, “I thought it was all going to . . . Not just Hermione and I. I mean everything. Me and Ron, and . . . you. The way things are with us.”
“What?” said Harry, mostly because he was pretty sure there hadn’t been any verbs in that sentence.
Malfoy didn’t look at him. “I thought it was all going to come apart. That there wouldn’t be any pub.”
“Gee, Malfoy.” Harry grinned at him. “You really do like that spinach dip.”
“You,” Malfoy began. He tried to glare at him, but a little smile played at the corner of his mouth. He looked away. When he looked back, the smile had got bigger, and he wasn’t trying to hide it any more. He rolled his eyes. “You are such a tosser.”
“I try,” said Harry. They walked over to the Floo. “Is Pansy coming?” he asked, before they went in.
Malfoy’s smile went away. “No.”
Harry thought about asking about it, but decided not to. He thought, just maybe, he was learning to understand Draco Malfoy. It was a strange and intricate process.
Harry didn’t really mind it at all.
*
When they got to the pub, Hermione was there. It was a lot like old times, until Blaise showed up.
“Draco,” he said. “Harry. And Miss Granger, how delightful to see you again.”
“Oh,” said Hermione. “Zabini?”
Harry had assumed Hermione had got reacquainted with Blaise too, as Hermione seemed to be friends with all of Malfoy’s friends. Apparently, she hadn’t.
“You must call me Blaise.” Blaise was holding a cocktail. Putting it on the table, he sat down across from Harry, next to Malfoy.
“Pansy said I should pop in,” said Blaise.
“Pansy.” Malfoy’s voice was stiff.
Hermione looked vaguely alarmed. “Is she coming? Here?” She suddenly looked like she wanted to be anywhere else.
“No, she’s having a massage.” Looking around the table, Blaise’s brows raised in concern. Maybe he saw Hermione’s discomfort, or Malfoy's annoyance. “However, now that I can honestly report I have seen you, I’m not obliged to stay.” His head tilted. “Shall I leave?”
“No,” said Harry, because it wasn’t like it was Hermione or Malfoy’s table.
It also wasn’t like everyone was fighting with Pansy.
“Hermione and Malfoy are going to talk politics,” Harry said. “You can distract me.”
“I am very distracting.” Blaise grinned, then turned to Hermione. “You’re looking very well, Miss Granger. I’ve been hearing so much about you.”
“Oh. Um,” said Hermione. “Call me Hermione.”
“How’s the fishing been?” Harry asked.
“Superb,” said Blaise. “I have had a few very promising nibbles in the last week or so.”
Apparently satisfied that Pansy wouldn’t suddenly appear, Hermione looked interested. “You fish? I’m not sure I’ve heard of anyone fishing in the wizarding world. I suppose I thought it wouldn’t take on as a hobby, since you can just summon fish out of the water with a wand.”
“Oh, but I never use force,” said Blaise, looking slightly appalled. “That takes the fun out of it. Patience and persistence require finesse.” He sipped his figtini. “I’m quite fond of finesse.”
“My dad used to say the same thing,” said Hermione. “Where do you fish, then?”
“The usual places.” Blaise gave her a pleasant smile. “Ballrooms, drawing-rooms, Hyde Park when the weather is fine, estate picnics. Where did your father fish?”
“Er,” said Hermione. “Generally in a boat, I think.”
“I don’t think Blaise would like boats,” said Harry.
“Oh?” Blaise raised a flawless brow.
Harry just smiled. “It would cut the algae.”
Blaise threw his head back and laughed. Hermione looked confused, and Malfoy looked sullen. Harry explained to Hermione, “Blaise photosynthesises for a living.”
“Er.” Hermione looked a little uncomfortable. She always looked that way when she corrected people's factual errors, but it actually hadn't convinced her to stop doing it. “Photosynthesis is what plants do.”
“Yeah,” said Harry. “Blaise does what plants do. He lies around in the sun all day.”
“So long as I’m indoors with the blinds sufficiently drawn,” said Blaise. “Too much sun would ruin my complexion.”
Harry snorted. “Your complexion is perfect.”
Blaise smiled brilliantly. “How good of you to notice. It is rather, isn’t it?”
It was. Blaise’s dark skin was smooth and flawless, just like his bald head was smooth and flawless, just like his full lips were sensual and flawless―just like all of him, really. Harry couldn’t help but notice.
Harry couldn’t help but notice also that Malfoy kept pushing his Brussels sprouts around his plate, and wasn’t saying anything.
“You don’t make your own food, do you?” Hermione said. “That’s what plants do.”
“I do differ significantly from a plant on the matter of production,” Blaise said.
“Blaise tries not to produce anything,” Harry said. “Especially on his own.”
“You understand me so well,” Blaise said. “I would much rather survive on other people’s carbohydrates. Though most anyone is free to sample mine, of course.” He smiled at Harry.
Harry felt himself blush, because Blaise looked the way he did, and because carbohydrates suddenly sounded like a much dirtier word than it ever should have, really. “You should have been a fungus,” he muttered.
Blaise just drank his cocktail. “I thought algae were fungi. I’m determined to live off others, if that’s what you mean.”
“Algae are bacteria,” Malfoy said, jabbing a sprout.
“It’s true,” said Hermione. “Cyanobacteria used to be considered algae. They’re quite interesting, really. They’re one of the oldest organisms, and―and . . . well, I think they’re cool,” she said weakly.
“They changed the composition of the atmosphere.” Malfoy jabbed another sprout. “We learned it in Herbology.”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Hermione.
“I never paid attention in Herbology,” said Blaise. “I don’t care for dirt at all.”
“I didn’t pay attention much either,” Harry said.
Malfoy kept on jabbing sprouts.
“I liked it,” said Hermione.
“You liked everything,” Harry pointed out.
“It’s no surprise,” Blaise told Hermione. “You excelled in every subject. But that can only be a very small part of your great success since school. I have been hearing such tremendous things about your sanctuary project.”
“Oh,” said Hermione, and blushed. These things just happened around Blaise. “It’s―it’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” said Malfoy, jabbing another sprout.
“Oh,” Hermione said again, flustered. “Well, Draco’s right; it’s not, of course. I mean, we have . . . three trolls there now who are learning to speak, and a small flock of fairies practising rudimentary spells. Nothing dangerous, of course, but they used to have quite beautiful magic. And we have three gnomes who have signed up for a gardening seminar―you know, so they can build their own places to live. They used to do that on their own, in the histories and . . .” She blushed again. “Draco volunteers. So does Harry.”
“What do volunteers do?” Blaise asked.
Harry was pretty sure Blaise was asking just to be polite, but it was actually something he really liked about Blaise. He might proclaim, in his amused, self-deprecating way, that he did everything for the sake of good form, but―well, his form was very good. He always seemed interested in other people and asked incisive questions about what they did.
Harry had not heard Blaise insult anyone since sixth year.
“I’m working with the fairies,” Harry said. “Defensive things, mainly, you know. Ways to protect themselves.”
“I could see where that would be quite useful,” said Blaise.
“Yeah.” Harry drank his pint. “Wizards treat them like pests, but we can learn a lot from them, actually.”
“Draco, what do you do?” Blaise asked.
Putting down his fork, Malfoy pushed his plate away. “Recruiting. Mostly Giants and werewolves.” He grimaced. “I have connections.”
He meant, of course, that Giants and certain groups of werewolves had sided with Voldemort.
Blaise’s brow furrowed. “But those are Beings.” He glanced at Hermione. “I thought the sanctuary was for Beasts?”
“It is,” said Malfoy, “but we’re working on Beast and Being relations. Besides, Beings aren’t being treated equally, either. Look at house-elves.” He glanced at Hermione, then back at his plate.
“I want house-elves to found a town,” Hermione said. “Draco says it would be cruel to free them all, but for the ones who are freed―they have no way of life except for serving other people, and the liberated ones go back to service because they have no alternative. Wouldn’t it be amazing if they could build their own town―make their own clothes―”
Blaise shook his head. “And you do all of this in your spare time. It already is amazing.”
“Well.” Hermione blushed again. “I work full-time in non-profits.”
“All six of them,” said Malfoy.
“We can always use more hands.” Hermione looked at Blaise in her eager way. “You could volunteer for anything you wanted.”
Malfoy snorted.
“Would there be any work involved?” Blaise said.
“Oh, tons.” Hermione grinned. “There’s teaching and recruitment, of course, like Draco and Harry, and Ron . . .” Hesitating, she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Well, he did planning, and lay-outs for the buildings. He picked the site actually, and there’s cleaning and supply restock, and―well, I imagine you’d be brilliant at something like PR―”
Blaise smiled kindly. “I never volunteer if there’s work to be done.”
“But . . .” Hermione looked startled. “That’s what volunteering is.”
Blaise’s smile was kinder still, and quite apologetic. “That’s why I never volunteer.”
“But . . .” Hermione trailed off again, frowning. “I thought you were on the Hogwarts Board of Directors.”
Harry was surprised. “You never told me that,” he said. Blaise just seemed so young.
“I didn’t volunteer,” said Blaise. “I was appointed.”
Hermione kept frowning. “But you don’t get paid.”
“Yes,” said Blaise, “but I do get to look very important.”
“But―”
“I don’t mean to disappoint you, Hermione,” Blaise said quietly. “I do my best to be a completely useless person.”
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “No, you’re not. You’re just lazy.” He turned on Blaise. “And I don’t see why, because if you would just make the effort, you could be so bloody―”
“Draco,” was all Blaise said.
Frowning, Malfoy turned back to his plate.
It sounded like a discussion that had happened many times before, but that wasn’t going to happen again tonight.
Blaise sighed a little. “Your project sounds delightful,” he told Hermione, “and you are a brilliant young witch. You are still attached to Mr Weasley, I presume?”
“I,” said Hermione, then stopped.
“I’m teaching Ron to play Go,” Malfoy said, filling the silence. He sounded quite smooth, not at all piqued, as he had been several moments before.
Harry thought that it was for Hermione’s sake.
“Is that so?” Blaise didn’t look at Hermione, giving her time to stare moodily at Malfoy’s plate.
“I would think Weasley would be quite good,” Blaise went on. “Go is so strategic.”
“You play?” Harry said, surprised.
“Blaise was the one who taught me,” Malfoy said.
Blaise smiled. “You were a brilliant student.”
“Yes.” Malfoy frowned. “Well. That was a long time ago.”
“I’ve been wanting to learn to play,” Harry said, because Malfoy was shifting uncomfortably, but he wasn’t looking at his plate. He was looking at Blaise. “It sounds interesting.”
“I could teach you,” Blaise said.
“Oh.” For some reason, Harry couldn’t stop himself from looking over in Malfoy’s direction, and for some other reason―or maybe the same reason―he couldn’t get his eyes past Malfoy’s plate.
Everyone found Malfoy’s plate fascinating, apparently, with its poor, murdered Brussels sprouts.
Harry turned back to Blaise. “Yeah,” he said. “That would be really cool.”
“Excellent,” said Blaise. “We must meet for gyokuro. I know an excellent tea shop; they keep a board behind the counter.”
“I don’t know what gyokuro is,” Harry said, and had to stop himself from glancing at Malfoy’s plate again.
“Green tea,” Malfoy said. His voice was quite gentle.
Harry looked at Malfoy then, finally, and Malfoy looked back. His grey eyes looked very clear. His long, straight nose was actually a little too long, and there was already a line beside his mouth.
He wasn’t nearly as beautiful as Blaise.
Harry looked down at his pint. “Oh,” was all he said.
“I’m sure you’ll love it, Harry.” Blaise’s voice was encouraging. “It’s exquisite.”
“Okay,” Harry said.
“Did you see Wang’s statement on Yaxley’s renewed sentence?” Malfoy’s voice was back to normal. He turned toward Hermione.
“Yes,” Hermione said.
Malfoy drank his fizzy water. “You don’t think it a little harsh?”
Hermione looked at him in surprise. “Yaxley was a Death Eater.”
“I know,” Malfoy said.
“I just mean, he―he fought in both of the wars.” Hermione twirled her hair around a finger. “Don’t you think he deserves a full term?”
Shaking his head, Malfoy said. “I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve the sentence. The sentence is fine. I don’t want any of us―of them getting off easy. What I mean is, the way Wang talks about it.”
“She’s just―”
“I smell politics,” Blaise said, leaning in.
“You’re just like Pansy and Ron,” Harry said. “And everyone, come to think of it. They don’t like politics.”
“But you do,” Blaise said.
“Oh, no,” Harry reassured him. “I hate them.”
“You didn’t look like you hated them, just now.”
Harry laughed. “That’s what Pansy says.” He glanced at Hermione and Malfoy, who, as usual, were still in earnest conversation. “Hate is the wrong word, maybe. I just don’t know what to do with them. I can volunteer at the sanctuary; I can hunt dark wizards; I can teach defence spells. Those are the kinds of things I’m good at.”
Blaise dropped his slice of orange into the remains of his cocktail. “You sell yourself short.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do,” Blaise said. “Draco says you should be on the Wizengamot.”
Harry stared at him. “That’s Hermione.”
“I’m sure it was Draco. Before tonight, Hermione and I hadn’t spoken since Hogwarts.” Blaise drank the rest of his cocktail. “But that’s not true. Hermione and I never spoke at Hogwarts at all.”
Harry shook his head. “I meant―Draco says Hermione should be on the Wizengamot. Not me.”
“No.” Blaise slid his figtini glass to the side. “He thinks Hermione should be Minister. He thinks that you should be Chief Warlock, on the Wizengamot; he thinks that Mr Weasley should be Head Auror. He thinks that I should head the Department of International Magical Cooperation. This is his vision of the future. Two decades, he says.”
“That’s . . . ambitious,” said Harry.
“He’s always been ambitious,” said Blaise. “So have I, but not at all in the same way. He is high-minded, our Draco.”
“What’s he going to be?”
Blaise raised a brow. “Pardon?”
“You said he says Hermione should be Minister, and all those other things. What does Malfoy think he should be?”
There was something much like pity in Blaise’s eyes. “He thinks he should never, ever be forgiven for the things he’s done.”
Harry felt ill. “That’s not fair.”
“When has Draco ever been fair?”
“I meant―” Harry swallowed hard. “That’s not right.”
Blaise looked more pitying still. “When has Draco ever been right?”
Harry grit his teeth. “Lots of times.”
“I do apologize, Harry.” Blaise’s voice was soft. “I didn’t mean to offend.”
“I know.” Blaise never meant to offend. Harry’s shoulders slumped. “I just―I want . . . ”
I want this world to be better, was what he was going to say, but he didn’t say it.
Instead he looked at Draco Malfoy.
Blaise looked at him for a while, his expression thoughtful. “I ran into Miss Ginerva Weasley the other day,” he said, his voice rather curious.
Harry pulled his eyes away. “Where?”
“A charity benefit. There were several Quidditch stars.”
Harry frowned. He still felt a little defensive. “Ginny hasn’t got a hook.”
Blaise raised a brow. “Excuse me?”
“She hasn’t got a hook. She isn’t dangling in the water, and she’s not a fish. She isn’t a plant, either.”
“This is excellent news.” Blaise gave him a self-deprecating smile. “I may pretend otherwise, but really, I prefer primates.”
“She’s a woman,” Harry said.
Blaise’s lips twitched. “I think I heard her roar.”
“I’m just saying. You hurt her,” Harry took a gulp of lager, “and I’ll kill you.”
“How unpleasant.”
Suddenly, Harry grinned. “Yeah.”
Head tilted to one side, Blaise looked at him a little while. “Will you humour me? I’m confused about something.”
“Sure.”
Blaise pressed his lips together, and went on looking at him. At last he asked, “What on earth makes you think I stand a chance with Miss Weasley?”
Harry shrugged. “Didn’t say you did. I just said you better watch your back.”
Blaise started to open his mouth, and then stopped. It was the first time Harry had seen him look uncertain.
It was kind of awesome, actually.
“You’re not one for idle threats,” was all Blaise said.
“About Ginny I am.” Harry finished off his pint. “Don’t tell her I said so, though. She’ll kill me.”
“That sounds undignified.”
“Yeah.” Harry leered. “Ginny can be really undignified.”
Blaise smirked. “Why don’t you tell me all about it?”
Harry leered some more. “I’m sure you’d like that.”
Blaise smirked some more. “I have no doubt.”
“What would he like?” said Hermione, and the smirking and the leering stopped.
Hermione and Malfoy had been quiet for several moments, actually, and Malfoy was frowning at his plate again. Harry was beginning to suspect he didn’t like Brussels sprouts nearly as much as he claimed to.
“I would like to know how you achieved such beauty and grace, while at the same time commanding such wisdom and erudition,” Blaise told Hermione easily. “I find I can only ever manage three things at once. One always has to go.”
Hermione blushed. “That’s not what you were saying.”
“So then it falls to choosing what I should sacrifice,” said Blaise. “I generally discard the most unappealing one.”
“Wisdom isn’t unappealing,” Hermione said.
“How wise you are.” Blaise smiled. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Pansy’s right,” Harry said, laughing. “You’re an arse.”
“Does anyone want more drinks?” Malfoy stood up. He looked sort of tired. “I’m going to the bar.”
“I’ll go with you.” Harry started to get up, but Blaise put a light hand on his.
“Allow me,” he said, and turned to Malfoy.
Without really looking at either one of them, Malfoy turned and headed in the direction of the bar.
“I’m worried about him,” said Hermione, looking after them as well.
“About Malfoy?”
Hermione nodded, tucking her hair again. “He’s still fighting with Pansy, and it’s because of me.”
Harry glanced toward the bar. “I think Malfoy and Pansy have their own problems.”
“I suppose,” Hermione said. “I just―I never thought this would work. He and I, I mean. Him and Ron. Him and you. Blaise and you. You and―and Pansy.”
“Slytherins and Gryffindors,” Harry said.
Hermione nodded. “I mean, when you put it that way, it sounds so―so childish. We’re not at Hogwarts any more, you know? Those things shouldn’t matter. You want them not to matter.”
“They don’t matter,” Harry said.
“Sometimes they do, though.”
Harry shook his head. “Not if you work at it. You’re the one who always said that.”
Hermione turned to him with great big eyes. “I’ve always been good at saying things. You’re the one who’s good at doing things.”
Moving her hair a little, Harry put his hand on her shoulder. He knew that even though she was talking about Malfoy, she was also thinking about Ron.
She wasn’t having a very good time of it.
“I think you’re doing great,” Harry said.
“Oh, Harry.” Hermione smiled up at him. “I think you’re doing great, too.”
* * *
23 September, 2004
“Fancy meeting you here,” Malfoy said, stepping inside the lift at the Ministry.
“Hey, Malfoy,” Harry said.
“I just keep running into you. Are you following me?”
Harry just raised his brows. “Do you want me to?”
“I think you’ve done enough of that, don’t you?”
Harry searched his face, but he couldn’t find anything in it that looked like resentment over sixth year. The only thing he could see was a certain flavour of light-hearted teasing, which had been there quite often when they began this thing, but now came and went. Harry turned back to the lift door. “You liked it.”
“Hardly.” The lift dinged, and putting his nose into the air, Malfoy stepped out. “You just couldn’t stay away.”
“I was just trying to find out why you combed your hair that way,” Harry said, following Malfoy out.
Malfoy’s nose went farther into the air. “I was a punctilious child.”
“You mean you were a fussy child.”
“How can you even talk about my hair?”
Harry snorted, stopping beside the Fountain of the Brethren. “Just because I wasn’t punctiliously coifed. Besides.” He glanced at Malfoy’s hair. It swept softly across Malfoy’s brow. “You’re not at all punctilious now.”
Malfoy’s eyes went slightly darker, hand tightening on the strap of his bag. He looked away. “Am too punctilious,” was all he said.
“I invited Neville.” Harry started walking toward the Floo, but stopped when Malfoy didn’t come up beside him. When he turned back, Malfoy had gone a shade paler.
“Longbottom?”
Harry smiled. “You do remember him, don’t you?”
Malfoy chewed the inside of his cheek. “I’ve suddenly remembered.” He turned back to the lift and paused.
Harry came back toward him. “What?”
Malfoy glanced at him. “I―I have to send an owl.”
As he started walking back toward the lift, Harry followed him. “Hey. Wait.” Reluctantly, Malfoy paused. “What’s wrong?” Harry asked.
“Nothing. I―” Malfoy glanced at Harry again. His knuckles were white on the strap. “I have to send an owl.”
Harry stepped closer. “What is it?”
Colour flared in Malfoy’s cheeks, hot and pink. He lifted his eyes to Harry’s. “I said it’s nothing.”
“You can tell me,” Harry said.
“No, I bloody well can’t!” Malfoy shouted, then looked appalled. “I―I have to go.” Whirling on his heel, he made it halfway to the lift. Then he stopped in the middle of the Atrium. He didn’t turn around.
Malfoy was a long slim line, looking like a string strung tightly between the floor and something a little over six feet off the ground. The string had just been strummed, and was waiting, now, to still.
Harry went over to him. “I didn’t mean you had to tell me,” Harry said, in case it was his fault. “I just meant that you could.”
“Greg was going to come tonight,” Malfoy said almost immediately. He still didn’t turn around. “I have to owl him to tell him not to.”
Harry just looked at him, the strong curve of Malfoy’s jaw, his hand clutched to his stupid strap as though it were a life line. “Why can’t he come?” Harry asked finally, when Malfoy just stood there.
“You weren’t there.” Malfoy turned to him slowly. “Seventh year at Hogwarts.”
Busy saving the world, Harry almost quipped, but didn’t.
Malfoy shook his hair out of his eyes. “Longbottom and Greg, they―they shouldn’t be in a room together.”
“Why?” Harry said again.
“Greg cast the Cruciatus Curse on Longbottom.”
“Oh,” was all Harry could think to say.
“More than once,” Malfoy said.
“Oh,” Harry said again, because he was still coming up blank.
“I’ll―I’ll go write that owl,” Malfoy said, and began to turn away.
“Wait,” Harry said.
Again, Malfoy didn’t turn around, but he did stop. “You weren’t there.”
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“Potter.” Malfoy did turn then. He looked miserable. “What could you possibly say?”
Harry looked at him again. As Malfoy had got older his bright white hair had been shot through with streaks the colour of dishwater, and his long, lean hands were a little bony. Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone quite as good looking. Even Blaise Zabini.
“You were going to cast Cruciatus on me,” Harry said.
Malfoy went three shades paler.
Harry could hear the Fountain of the Brethren, the water splashing into the pool at the bottom.
“I didn’t manage it,” Malfoy said, his voice quite low.
“No,” Harry said. “Instead, I sliced you up in ribbons.”
Malfoy looked away. “That’s different.”
“There was blood everywhere,” Harry said. “I’d never seen that much blood. I watched people die; I watched them get murdered. But I’d never seen so much blood as I did then.” He stepped closer. “I remember the way it smelled.”
Malfoy stepped away. “That’s different.”
“How is it different?” Harry pushed his glasses up. “Tell me how that’s any different.”
“Longbottom didn’t do anything,” Malfoy said. “Greg just did it because―”
“Because people picked on him,” Harry said. “They picked on him for being stupid and spoiled and fat.”
“That doesn’t make it―”
“No.” Harry stepped closer again. “Nothing is ever going to make what I did to you right.”
Stubbornly, Malfoy shook his head. “Longbottom didn’t do anything,” he said again. “I know what Greg’s been through better than you do, and that’s why―but Longbottom never did anything.” He lifted his eyes. “No, in fact, Longbottom did a lot of things. He took detentions for the younger ones; he protected people. He stood up instead of giving in. He only ever did the right thing. He didn’t deserve how I―how we treated him. He didn’t deserve any of it.”
Harry just looked at him. “Malfoy,” he said quietly, after a long moment, “you think you deserved it?”
Malfoy looked away, and Harry had his answer.
Harry wanted to touch him; he just didn’t know how or where he wanted to. He could take Malfoy’s hand, but that was―sort of intimate; he could pat Malfoy’s shoulder, but it wasn’t intimate enough. He thought about Malfoy’s elbows―he thought about them a lot, actually. He’d thought about them before, and how it was weird that he never saw Malfoy’s elbows, because Malfoy always wore long sleeves, and there was just that one time Malfoy had rolled one up.
What Harry really wanted to do was touch the side of Malfoy’s face. He wanted to cup Malfoy’s jaw in his hand and touch his hair with fingertips, brush his mouth with thumb, and make him understand.
“No one deserves that.” Harry shoved his hands deep down in his pockets, balling them into fists. “People deserve trials and sentencing. Sometimes they deserve prison; they may even deserve to be Kissed; who knows about that. But no one deserves to be cut up like that. No one, Malfoy. No matter what the reason.”
“Self-defence.”
“You think what I did was self-defence?”
Malfoy looked away again. “No.”
“You disable someone in self-defence. You stun someone or disarm them. You don’t do what I did. I was trying to hurt you.”
“I was a Death Eater,” Malfoy said. “I have the Mark, Potter.”
“No,” said Harry, suddenly frustrated. “Let me, for once. I was stupid. I was cruel. I never meant to hurt you the way I did, but I’m the one who fucked up. That time, it wasn’t you. You didn’t deserve it.”
“What do I deserve?” Malfoy’s voice was also frustrated. “You think, just because a few of us can get along at a pub, everything is mended now? You think it’s just that simple?” He shook his hair back again. “It’s not. I almost killed Ron Weasley!”
“It was an accident.”
“Because I was trying to kill someone else! It was murder I was doing, Potter, pure and simple.” Malfoy was nearly shaking. “Tell me, what do I deserve?”
The water fall of the Fountain of the Brethren sounded a lot like rain.
“A second chance,” Harry said.
Malfoy just shook his head. “It’s not going to work. You weren’t there seventh year.”
Harry thought about it some, then decided to risk it. “Remember when I was worried about Ron not getting along with you?”
“This is different.”
“You keep saying that,” Harry said, “but it’s actually not at all.”
“Yes, it is,” Malfoy said. “Ron is your friend. Greg is my responsibility.”
Harry wanted to touch him again, just then, but the way he wanted to do it, it wouldn’t be what Malfoy deserved. It would be something that couldn’t be earned at all, and Malfoy obviously didn’t understand that.
“Malfoy,” Harry said, “you’re not responsible for anyone but you.”
Malfoy looked away again, and Harry thought of the way Malfoy had clamped down on Greg’s arm when he’d begun arguing with Hermione. That hadn’t looked like responsibility. It had looked like reliability, like Malfoy was drawing strength by Greg just being there beside him. It had looked like Malfoy knew he was there, without even looking, knew Greg would always be there.
Harry hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but he thought about it now.
“You always think things are going to work out,” Malfoy said.
Harry frowned. “Not really, no.”
“That’s how you do the things you do.” Malfoy chewed the inside of his cheek. “You can just . . . leap the way you do because you think everything will be all right, and to hell with failure.”
Shrugging, Harry said, “Mostly I just don’t think at all.”
Malfoy just stood there.
“Hey,” Harry said. “That was funny. I made a joke. You can laugh; it’s okay.”
“I’m thinking about it,” Malfoy said, frowning.
“Don’t strain yourself.”
“I’m thinking I better go send that owl.”
“What about Neville?” Harry said. “He knows you’re going to be there. He agreed to it. You said it yourself; he’s a good person―”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“It doesn’t have to be. Please,” Harry said. “Trust me.”
Malfoy rolled his eyes in exasperation. “This isn’t an issue of trust, Potter.”
“Yes, it is. Trust me.” Harry stepped closer. “Trust this.”
Malfoy was wavering.
Harry reached out.
Stepping away, Malfoy said, “At least owl Longbottom.”
Harry pushed his glasses up.
“At least warn him,” Malfoy said. “Then he can choose.” When Harry just stood there looking at him, he added, “Please.”
“Okay,” Harry said.
Malfoy looked over toward the Floo. “I’ve got to―I’ve got to speak to Greg. I’ll see you at the pub.”
“Okay,” Harry said, and went to send the owl.
*
When Harry got to the pub, Malfoy, Greg, and Hermione were there, but Neville wasn’t there yet.
When he did get there, he said, “Hello Harry, Hermione.” He turned slightly toward Malfoy and started to say, “Mal―” And then he saw Greg, and went very still. “―foy.”
Malfoy lurched out of his seat―just like he would have done for Hermione, or Luna, or any girl who wasn’t Pansy, except far less gracefully. He swallowed hard. “Longbottom.” His eyes were wide, as though with surprise.
“Yeah,” Neville said, and just kept looking at Greg.
“Hey, Longbottom,” Greg said, barely looking up, and started in on Malfoy’s fried onion.
“Goyle,” Neville said, and then didn’t say anything else.
Harry had invited Neville on a whim. Neville had been asking how things were going with Malfoy and the rest; he knew that Harry, Hermione and Ron had been going to the pub. Neville had said he thought it was great that Malfoy was trying to redeem himself, and that Harry could forgive him.
Harry had wanted to correct him, because that wasn’t how it happened, not at all, but he guessed that was how it looked to others. Maybe that was even how it looked to Malfoy. Harry had never thought about it that way.
The way Harry thought about it, they were all just going to the pub. When he’d asked Neville to come, it was for that reason―so that he could see it wasn’t Gryffindors and Slytherins, like Hermione had said.
It was just people.
Neville had hesitated. He’d said he didn’t know, that Malfoy had been a bit of a prat in school, but he’d said it in a teasing, slightly rueful way. Harry had said it would be different, and Neville had said okay.
At the time, he hadn't known that Greg was going to be there.
“You didn’t get my owl,” Harry said, slow realization dawning.
Neville was just looking at Greg, who was decimating Malfoy’s onion. “What?” he said, jerking his attention back to Harry.
“My owl.” Harry glanced at Malfoy, who was hovering, as Malfoy sometimes did. “Sorry,” Harry said, turning back to Neville. “I owled you to let you know Greg was coming along. I guess it didn’t get you.”
“I was in a cave in Devon,” Neville said. He looked at Harry blankly. “There was lichen.”
“Sorry,” Harry said. “Do you―you wanna sit down?”
Neville looked around the table, gaze lingering on Greg.
Meanwhile Malfoy looked like he was manfully trying to resist pulling Neville’s chair out for him.
Abruptly, Neville pulled out the chair and sat down. Malfoy sat down too, and Greg went on eating onion.
“There are some lichen with incredible magical properties,” Hermione said, her voice encouraging. “And Draco and I had an interesting conversation about cyanobacteria the other day.”
Neville looked at her, then turned to Malfoy slightly. “Did you?”
“It’s bacteria,” Malfoy said, then bit his lip.
“Cyanobacteria is bacteria.” Neville didn’t sound mean; he still just sounded sort of blank. And what he’d said wasn’t an insult, when Harry thought about it. It was just that it sort of seemed insulting, because it was Neville, and Neville wasn’t sarcastic with people, hardly ever. “That’s fascinating.”
“Yes,” said Malfoy.
“I like plants you can eat,” Greg said, and heaped the rest of Malfoy’s onion on his plate. “Except for vegetables. I don’t like those.”
“Onions are vegetables,” Hermione said. Her voice was still encouraging. “You like those.”
“Don’t be daft,” said Greg. “Onions aren’t vegetables.”
“What lichen was it?” Malfoy said.
“Map lichen.” Neville wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at Greg.
“But map lichen is relatively common,” Hermione said.
Neville turned back to her. “It was growing an actual map. In Chudleigh Cavern. We’re thinking it could be used in way-finding potions or . . . charms.” His attention wandering from Hermione, it settled on Greg once more.
“Longbottom,” Malfoy said.
“What?” Neville’s attention snapped to Malfoy. His voice was a little brusque.
“You could use it in a sachet,” Malfoy said helplessly. “The lichen.”
“Yes.” Visibly, Neville made an effort to be less short. “That’s a good idea. Do you . . . there are lovers’ talismans, which can always lead you back to the one you’re looking for.”
Malfoy said carefully, “It might even work in a compass.”
“Can you eat lichen?” Greg said, a hunk of onion in his hand.
“I can’t do this.” It was sudden and abrupt, the sound of Neville’s chair scraping against the floor. “I’m sorry Harry, Hermione. Sorry Malfoy.”
“Hey,” Greg said. “All I said was, ‘can you eat lichen?’”
“I know,” said Neville. “I’m sorry to you, too.”
“Hey, Neville,” Harry said, catching his hand.
“Is there anything wrong with eating lichen?” Greg said.
“No,” Hermione soothed, “it’s acceptable in many cultures.”
“Harry,” Neville said, “let go.”
“But―”
Neville pulled out of his grasp, and began to walk away.
“Hey.” Harry stood up as well, and suddenly Malfoy was there.
“Don’t,” he said.
“But―”
“I said you didn’t know what you were doing,” Malfoy said.
Greg's voice was rising. “I didn’t say anything about his grandmother or his stupid toad or anything. Draco said if I didn’t―”
“Neville’s just upset,” Hermione said.
“But Draco said―”
“He was just taken off guard,” Harry told Malfoy. Neville was nearing the door of the pub. “I’ll just go talk to him.”
Malfoy got in his way again. “Potter―”
“He just didn’t get the owl,” Harry said. “It’ll be okay.”
“I’ll go,” Malfoy said.
Sitting at the table, Hermione looked up from patting Greg’s hand. “Draco, that might not be such a good idea.”
“He said no one would get mad at me,” Greg said.
“No.” Malfoy looked at Greg, who looked fat, dumb, and very, very unhappy. “This is my fault. I’ll sort it.”
“It’s not,” Harry began.
“Don’t you dare, Potter,” Malfoy said. Whirling around, he went after Neville.
Harry started after him.
“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said, “don’t.”
“I’m just going to talk to him,” Harry said.
Hermione tucked her hair behind her ear. “Draco wants to make amends.”
“I talked about stupid plants,” Greg said. “What’s his problem, anyway?”
Harry looked at Hermione, pleading. “I told him he could trust me.”
“He wants to do it by himself,” Hermione said.
“He wants to do everything by himself!” Harry’s voice rose in frustration. Realizing he was doing it, he brought it back down again. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”
“Harry―”
“It doesn’t.” Harry headed toward the door.
“Why is everyone mad at me?” Greg was saying, as he left.
Hermione was likely patting him again. “They’re not; of course, they’re not.”
It was night, but it was not quite quiet; the light in the bookshop was still on and Horkin’s Haberdasher was hopping. The pub was a low murmur, spilling mullioned yellow light, and Malfoy had caught Neville just on the edge of the foot path. Malfoy’s face looked long and pinched, sickly in the oil glow of the street-lamp.
Hermione said they were nineteenth century, the street-lamps, and that the wizarding world really should stop using oil as fuel.
Set an example, she kept saying.
“Potter said―”
“Potter,” Neville said. “Malfoy, you can’t even call him by his first name!”
“Harry.” Malfoy’s voice was so low Harry barely heard it. “Harry thinks we can make it work.”
“I know what Harry thinks,” said Neville. “I know how Harry thinks. He thinks that just because something is right, it can be done. He’s always been that way.”
“No,” Malfoy said.
The only time Harry had seen Malfoy look like that, so completely open and horribly naked, was the time he’d rolled up his sleeve to show Hermione what he understood about atonement.
“He thinks that because something is right, people should try,” Malfoy said.
“I know you’re trying,” Neville said. “I can’t tell you just how damn optimistic it makes me feel. But bloody hell, Malfoy, you don’t think I’m trying too?”
“I know, but please, you’ve got to understand,” Malfoy said, and Harry realized he was seeing Draco Malfoy beg.
He’d seen Malfoy beg before. He’d seen him cower in front of Voldemort and he’d seen him say he didn’t know, right to Harry’s puffed up face.
But Harry felt like he hadn’t seen this. He hadn’t seen this, and it was―it was a violation to watch; it was disrespectful to Malfoy; it was shameful and offensive and unkind, Malfoy had once said, to watch, and Harry couldn’t stop.
“Greg’s always been―”
“I understand Gregory Goyle,” Neville said, and it was not without gentleness.
Harry forced himself to step out onto the pavement. “No, you don’t,” he said.
“Harry.” Neville turned toward him.
“You don’t,” Harry said again. “He didn’t know any better. He’s been made fun of his whole life, and he―”
“Harry,” Neville said again, very quietly. “Look at who you’re talking to.”
You weren’t, Harry wanted to say, but of course, Neville had been.
Harry looked at him―Neville, who’d grown up fit: sharp straight brows and sharp straight shoulders, sandy-coloured hair that was thick and wavy, a full strong mouth and long long legs. Neville, who was smart and brave and a better poster child for the war than Harry ever could be, because Harry got angry and hexed reporters, and Neville only ever could be kind, when he wasn’t slaying monsters. Neville Longbottom always had been the real hero, and no one had ever known it until the end, because he’d been round and clumsy and forgetful, and everyone had laughed.
“He can be forgiven,” Harry said instead.
“Harry.” Neville sounded like Hermione, when she got sad, and didn’t know how to break something to him. “I’ve forgiven everything. I did it years ago. I had to, or I’d have never made it.”
“Then why―”
“It’s just not that simple, Harry.” Neville’s eyes were full of pity. “I know you want it to be, but it isn’t.”
The murmur from the pub grew suddenly, and all three of them looked over toward the door, where Hermione and Greg had just stepped out of the pub.
“I don’t understand,” Harry said, turning back to Neville. “If we just―”
Neville’s voice was still quiet. “Do you have nightmares, Harry?”
Harry glanced at Malfoy, who looked so desolate there, under the street-lamp. Turning back to Neville, Harry said, “Yes.”
“Do you ever see faces in them?”
The face Harry saw most was Ginny’s.
It had started during seventh year, and just never really stopped. It had been the worst when they were together; he could never save her, ever. Nothing was enough.
Sometimes it was Hermione though, and sometimes it was Ron. Sometimes it was Luna, Lupin, or Dumbledore. More than once, it had been Snape.
Lately there had been Malfoy, and lots and lots of fire, and falling through a veil.
When Harry didn’t answer, Neville said, “I see faces in mine.”
He looked at Greg, and then back at Harry.
Back before he’d dreamed of Ginny, Harry had always dreamed of Voldemort.
“It’s taken me years,” Neville said, “to hear Hannah call out, and not to think she’s being tortured.”
“Neville,” Harry said.
Neville gave him his self-deprecating little smile. “It just needs more time, Harry. That’s all.”
“I get what he’s saying,” Greg said. “He’s saying he sees me in his nightmares.” He thought about it a while. “Man, that’s wicked cool.”
“I’m sorry,” Neville said, and Disapparated with a pop.
Harry looked at the spot where he had been, and it seemed like forever before he could lift his eyes. And yet, he couldn’t not lift them; it was as though his gaze was dragged by force, like a magnet, to where Draco Malfoy stood.
He looked pale and little in the light.
“That was an awful thing to say,” Hermione told Greg.
“Hey.” Greg just shrugged. “I was thinking positive.”
Malfoy’s shoulders slumped.
“Nightmares aren’t positive at all,” Hermione said.
“Sure they are.” Greg looked down at her. “I mean, not if you're having them, but if you’re in people’s nightmares it must mean you’re real tough. You know, like a head honcho.”
“Oh, Greg,” said Hermione. “How can you say such things?”
“Because they’re true,” Greg said angrily. He glared at Hermione, and then at Harry, and then at Malfoy. Looking at all of their faces seemed to make him angrier, and he turned back to Hermione. “I can’t help it if Longbum is a pussy.”
A wave of frustration rolled over Harry, and it felt a lot like fury. “Don’t call him that.”
“Hey.” Scowling, Greg stepped toward him. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
“What, you only listen to Malfoy, is that it?”
Greg stepped closer. “I don’t take orders from Malfoy. I don’t take orders from anyone!”
Harry grit his teeth. “Maybe you should.”
Greg’s chin jutted out. “I can do things for myself.”
“Maybe you really can’t, if you’re going to act like an idiot,” Harry said.
“If you touch one hair on his head―”
“Oh, Draco, no,” Hermione said.
“—I will cut your eyes out, and replace them with your balls.” Though Malfoy hadn’t come any closer, and hadn't raised his voice, Harry could hear him perfectly. His tone cut through the night air like a cold, sharp knife.
His wand was in his hand.
Only then did Harry realize he’d stepped toward Greg. He stepped back. “Malfoy, I―”
“You what?” Malfoy’s voice was cool and steady.
“I wasn’t going to touch any of Greg’s hair,” Harry said. “Not the one’s on his head or anywhere. You know that.”
“Do I? How?” Malfoy tilted his head. “Because I trust you?”
Harry had said that to him, in the Atrium. He’d made Malfoy do it; he’d been pig-headed and an arse, and he hadn’t listened. But if Malfoy would just―
“Calm down,” Harry said. “Did you even hear the things he was saying?”
“I heard them. Greg may say anything he pleases.”
“Damn straight,” Greg said.
Harry stepped toward Malfoy. “Draco―”
“Malfoy,” Malfoy said.
Harry stopped as though he’d been slapped in the face.
Putting away his wand, Malfoy walked over to Greg and took his arm. “Come on, Greg.”
Greg looked disappointed. “You’re not going to do that thing you said with his balls?”
Malfoy smiled a little at him. “Greg, do I ever do any of the things I say I’m going to do with people’s balls?”
“I dunno,” said Greg. “You’re the poof.”
“Draco,” Hermione said, “wait.”
“Granger,” said Malfoy, “for once just mind your own business.”
“Oh.” Hermione bit her lip, her eyes filling with tears.
“Cheer up,” Malfoy said. “Potter here says everything is going to be all right.”
“You don’t have to drag me,” Greg said, because Malfoy was dragging him.
“Come along.” Malfoy put his arm around Greg, looked at Harry, and Disapparated them both.
“Well,” Harry told the air. “That went well.”
* * *
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