Entry tags:

fic, harry/draco, hp, hpfic, novella

FIC: Now The Shining Sun Is Up (part 3)

* * *

Harry kept his eye on Malfoy, just like he said he would. It was his job, after all. The second Malfoy put a toe in the wrong direction, Harry could go to Shacklebolt with what he knew. The Aurors could stop the trouble Malfoy was potentially causing before most of it even started. They were already uncomfortable with the Our Runed Fortune, the new underground newspaper circulating about.

But Harry had to have proof of actual criminal activity to bring Malfoy in, of course. That was why, Harry told himself, he never watched Malfoy when he was on the job. It was always after, mostly in the evenings, sometimes on days off. He followed along when Malfoy went out, stayed near by when Malfoy stayed in. He kept track of the places Malfoy had been, the people he had seen. It could be important. Shacklebolt could need the lists.

Harry never wrote any of it down.

When Malfoy arrived at the Hogshead after around a week of this close scrutiny, Harry should have assumed a disguise. He should have pretended to patronize the Hogshead, covertly garnered information by eavesdropping. Then he should’ve immediately reported what he knew to Shacklebolt. He had seen a lot of Malfoy’s cronies walk in, too—among them Pansy Parkinson, Gregory Goyle, Blaise Zabini. He recognized other Slytherins, children of Death Eaters, a few people with the Mark on their arms. It looked to be some kind of important meeting.

Instead, Harry walked in and sat down and managed to look conspicuous. If Malfoy was doing anything illegal, Harry supposed, he’d be more circumspect about it. Malfoy was a Slytherin, after all, and this was a public place. Aberforth looked unhappy, but Malfoy had visited him several times during the past week.

Harry had remained in some contact with Aberforth since the battle of Hogwarts. He could have asked him what Malfoy on about. But even though Aberforth hadn’t known Harry before that battle, he’d known about Dumbledore—known Dumbledore was using him, and hadn’t told him anything. Harry wasn’t sure Aberforth would tell him anything now, either. That was why Harry didn’t ask. That, and the other minor detail that Harry didn’t like how Malfoy had told Aberforth what he was up to, but hadn’t told him. Hadn’t flown at him again, his hands expressive and quick, color high on his cheeks, hadn’t looked at him at all.

That’s what staying under cover got you.

That was why Harry didn’t bother to stay in hiding at what turned out to indeed be a meeting. Malfoy nattered on about rights, staying peaceful, proving that they could be productive members of society. They could be the best members of society, in fact, and they needed not violence or bloodshed to prove their superiority; they could rise about solely on the merit of their work ethic and genius and pureblooded bigotry blah blah blah-ity blah. Harry wasn’t paying much attention. He was watching Malfoy closely.

Just like he said he would.

After Malfoy was done, some other people talked. Aberforth even chatted with some of them, and then there were drinks. Most of them were leaving, and Malfoy was slipping into the booth across from Harry, plunking a plate of chips down between them. He was grinning, such a smile as Harry had never seen before, perhaps from too much to drink, or maybe just the success of his little rally or whatever. Harry guessed it was the latter. Malfoy’s eyes weren’t shiny; they were dancing.

“So,” Malfoy said eagerly, “what did you think?”

“That you’re not a very good criminal mastermind.” Harry had been thinking about what to say; that was mostly what he’d come up with.

“Good, good.” Malfoy sounded truly pleased. “That was my plan exactly.”

“What?”

Instead of drizzling the vinegar like any normal person, Malfoy had a tub of it and dipped his chips in until they were soaking wet. It figured, Harry guessed. It wasn’t like Malfoy was ever much of a honey person. “Since you’ve been following me about like a puppy,” he said, after finishing his chip, “I thought I’d show the Aurorly types I’m willing to have full disclosure. Then they can know Carthy’s accusations of us using Dark Magic and still trying to resurrect Voldemort and that is all claptrap.”

“I haven’t been following you about.”

“You do latch on to things, don’t you. Sometimes I worry about using complex sentences with you. Do you hear anything after subjunctive clauses?”

“Who was that man?” Harry asked, ignoring Malfoy’s jabbing.

“The big one was Goyle. You might remember him from skirmishes such as the one where Granger grew teeth down to her knees, or the one where—”

Harry didn’t understand why he bothered paying Malfoy any heed at all; he really didn’t. “The dark-haired bloke. In back. He kept staring at you.”

“There was a dark-haired bloke who couldn’t seem to look away the entire time? Somehow, I just do not find this shocking. But I’m trying,” Malfoy rushed to assure him. “Potter, I really am.” He waved a chip around to emphasize how hard he was really trying.

“Shut up,” Harry snapped. “You’re not exactly hosting a knitting circle here. He could be a Death Eater who’s not interested in your whole Ghandi obsession thing. Or he could be a spy of Parris who will try to make trouble for you or—you just don’t know.”

“I do not have Ghandi obsession,” Malfoy said haughtily. “I have Ghandi respect, and profound Ben Kingsley lust.”

Harry resisted bursting into tears over his lager about Malfoy’s arrogant stupidity, but just barely.

Malfoy had his head tilted, speculatively looking at Harry who was still speculatively looking at his lager. “What if this bloke did turn me in?” Malfoy asked suddenly. “Would you corroborate his story?”

“I asked you a question,” Harry grit out. “Did you know him?”

Malfoy happily munched down more chips. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m an Auror,” Harry corrected, now having to resist the urge to bang the pint over Malfoy’s head.

“Fine.” Malfoy looked disappointed. “I know him, alright? He helped me set up my wireless frequency.”

“I want his name.”

“Are you mad?” Malfoy looked as though he thought Harry really was. “I’m not giving you that kind of information; I don’t want you to stalk my friends too.”

“Who said anything about stalking?”

“It’s not so much what was said,” Malfoy hedged, “as people who were stalked.”

“I’m not stalking you.”

“Really. You show up at my meetings, my home, my work. You even show up at my arrest. Coincidence? I think not.”

“This is business. Shacklebolt—”

“Says I’m still inflammatory?” Malfoy looked hopeful.

Harry gave up.

He wasn’t surprised Malfoy could intuitively recognize surrender of any kind, which he learned when Malfoy immediately switched the subject.

“So, you met all my friends. Parkinson was very pleased to see you again, by the way. She always admired your shoulders and extreme heedlessness. And other things I refuse to repeat. Don’t you dare go after her either, Potter. We are soul-mates.”

“I thought she married some Scandinavian bloke.”

“Ours is a tragic affair.”

“You didn’t seem very . . . attached when she was here a few minutes ago.”

“We must love each other from afar. Intimacy is forbidden. Our burning passion must be kept forever concealed. We are doomed, doomed; that’s what I say.” Malfoy was sounding more and more pleased with this idea. “We should have clandestine meetings in grottos. There need to be more grottos in general, I think, and more clandestine going on in them. I have firm respect for time honored traditions, you know.”

“So,” Harry said, more and more annoyed by this idea. “You keep your burning passion forever concealed by babbling about sexing her up in some cave?”

Malfoy shuddered. “What horrid things you do say. And I do not babble. Anyway, what I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, was that you have met all my friends. Now, where are yours?” Malfoy waited a while for an answer. “How come you never hang around with Granger and the Weasel any more?”

“I do.” Harry swallowed. “They’re my best friends.”

“Hm.” Smoothing his fingers over a napkin, Malfoy pushed away his plate. “You’ve spent more time in my company the past week than you have in anyone else’s,” Malfoy said finally. “Trailing around after someone you hate might say a thing or two about the people you like.”

“I don’t hate you.”

Malfoy blinked. “Go on, shatter what little knowledge I had of you.”

“And I haven’t spent time in your company. This is the first time I’ve talked to you in . . . days.”

Malfoy snorted. “Fine. You’ve spent more time just outside the luminescent aura of my company. Don’t think I don’t see you watching from the shadows.”

“Just making sure you’re not making trouble, Malfoy. I am an Auror.”

“You’ve said that already,” Malfoy pointed out, ever willing to assist.

“Then that’s because it’s true.” Harry scowled, wishing he had something better. “I’m an Auror, and you want to start another war just because there isn’t one.”

“I told you—”

Harry cut him off. “Yeah, you told me. You told me people are going to start fighting sooner or later. Mostly, it seems like that would happen because it’s always going to happen. There’s always been war. People are always going to be unhappy, no matter how many Voldemorts you slay.”

Malfoy clucked his tongue. “Such a defeatist attitude.” He was trying to sound flippant, but it wasn’t really there. Tracing his finger in some water circle some other beverage had left on the table, he finally asked, “What happened to you, anyway? Why are you so . . .” Malfoy trailed off, still tracking his hand in the condensation. His fingers were so strong and long and masculine and elegant Harry wanted to grab them and smash them into the table.

“What happened with your mates? With Hermione and Ron? And the weeniest Weasley. The girl one.”

“Don’t go around using their names like you know them.”

Malfoy went on writing things in water.

“Nothing happened,” Harry said eventually. “They just—they fight a lot. Hermione and Ron. They spend so much time bickering that sometimes I wonder why they bother. I know they really love each other; it’s just . . . I can’t tell you this. I can’t go around telling you stuff like this.”

“Sure you can.” Malfoy grabbed Harry’s lager and took a swig. “You can because we’re not friends. You know I really don’t give two shakes.”

“Yes, that makes it so much better.”

Malfoy gave a fluid shrug. “Have it your way.”

Harry frowned down at his own watermark.

“And the Weasley of the female persuasion?” Malfoy prodded. “Not the brood mother. The other one. There was a time I thought you two were an item. Around the same time I had to get my guts stitched into my abdomen, but I’m sure you had better things to worry about then. Oh, what a time.”

Harry shrugged. “She’s with Dean.”

“Thomas? They were a thing too, right?”

“Yeah. She . . .she always wanted me, you know? But she said . . . something like, ‘you can always be someone different,’ and that when someone shows you that it’s . . .’ Well, she said something like that, anyway.”

“When someone shows you that it’s what?” Malfoy demanded.

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know, she said it would be easy. But it’s not.”

Malfoy thought for a while. “She just meant what you really want can be staring you right in the face.”

Harry looked away. He should tell Malfoy he couldn’t have any idea what Ginny had been thinking, that he and Ginny were worlds apart, not similar at all. Instead he said, “I don’t know. I looked at her face a lot. Freckles, just here.” He waggled his fingers over the bridge of his nose.

“You looked, but did you really see?”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “She said that.” Really, it was like everyone knew everything but him.

“Dunno,” Malfoy said quickly. “Think it’s just a quote from something.”

Harry kept on frowning down at the circle of water in front of him. “You know what?” he said eventually. “I think you wrote those articles about me in fourth year.”

“The Skeeter ones?” Malfoy perked up. He got that smug smile on again. “Why, yes. Yes, most of those were me.”

“It’s not a compliment.” Harry was appalled.

“Stop thinking of yourself for once and think of me. Admit they were brilliant.”

“They were hackneyed.”

“Were not!”

“You used the phrase, ‘glistening tears’ like twenty times. And ‘lambent’ way too much.”

“I can’t help it if your tears are like diamond dew drops of despair.”

“Please stop.”

Malfoy laughed.

Harry watched him.

“You have to admit I’m better than the Prophet,” Malfoy eventually said. His eyes were glowing again, and the color in his face wasn’t from the alcohol, and even in the bad lighting of the pub, Harry could see every bit of brightness perfectly.

“I don’t read the Prophet.”

“Of course you do.” Malfoy took another swig of the lager and then made a face. “You’re in it every day.”

“That would be why I don’t read it.”

Malfoy hand shot out and the pint tipped wildly. Harry caught it and righted it. “You say I have club hands,” he joked.

“You do. But anyway I didn’t say that; my goggles did.” Malfoy didn’t sound like he was paying attention even to himself—which was probably true, since he was talking about goggles talking. Instead he was peering at Harry with interest, a funny look on his face, as if he was trying to figure Harry out.

Apparently Malfoy would have very much liked to be on every page of the Daily Prophet, or something, and didn’t understand why Harry wouldn’t.

Harry pretended to be interested in wood grains on the table. He wished Malfoy would figure out that if he didn’t like being in the paper all the time he probably wouldn’t like being stared at like that either, like some surprising bug under a microscope. Then Harry realized Malfoy probably did know that and was still staring at him just to annoy him.

“You really don’t like all that publicity, do you.” Malfoy sounded like a professor talking to a student who had failed all his subjects.

“You just now figured that out? I thought you were smart.”

Malfoy perked up a bit from his apparently profound disappointment in everything that was Harry. “You did?”

“No.”

Malfoy went back to his somber depression. “I thought it was some kind of act.”

“What?”

“The modesty thing. It’s like bragging, only less honest.”

“I wouldn’t act modest if I wasn’t.”

“Oh God.” Malfoy put his head into his hands. “I really am an idiot.”

Harry didn’t disagree.

“I’m an idiot, I mean, because I forgot you were an idiot. How could I imagine you were capable of such guileful manipulation? Should have known. You’re too dense to be anything but revoltingly earnest.”

Harry snorted loudly. “Maybe I’m not dense enough not to know that going around lying all the time is kind of stupid.”

“I think you’re confusing an intelligence quotient and your personal moral standards. They’re inversely proportional, you see.”

“Whatever.” Harry shrugged. “There’s no point in pretending to be someone you’re not.”

“There’s all kinds of point.” Malfoy drew himself up.

“Is there? You don’t do it. You act like exactly who you are, most of the time.”

“I do not!” If Malfoy drew himself up any further he was going to start floating like Aunt Marge.

“Do too. You’re miserably candid.”

“Listen here.” Malfoy’s hands were tight around the tankard, and he was speaking through grit teeth. Color stained both cheekbones. “I am very good at Occulemency. I’m very good at—”

“If you were so good at hiding what you feel, Malfoy, you’d be pretending you didn’t give a flip what I was saying, and you’d be calm now, wouldn’t you?”

Malfoy pressed his lips together hard, then said very loudly, “I am calm.”

“I can see that.”

Malfoy deMarged. Mostly. “Don’t raise your brows at me, Potter; it doesn’t suit you. This is all your fault, anyway.”

“Maybe you just have trouble staying calm around me.”

“Don’t smirk, either, especially when exposing your foolishness.”

“What ever you say, Malfoy.” Harry smirked some more while Malfoy glowered. “It’s alright, you know. I mean, it suits you too. I wouldn’t want you to be someone you weren’t.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Honestly, Potter, like I’m worried about what you think.”

“Whatever.” He looked at Malfoy for a while, and Malfoy didn’t look at him, fiddling with the napkin and the pint and the vinegar and whatever else came to hand. It was the first time Harry had been talking to him in any recent memory when Malfoy wasn’t working on some project or other, something to keep his hands busy. It kept making Harry want to hold them still. There was still faint color on Malfoy’s cheeks.

Harry looked away. “What about you?” he demanded suddenly. “I mean you’re different. You’re different than I remember from school, anyway. What happened?”

Malfoy looked up, and then very pleased. Liked the opportunity to talk about his favorite subject, Harry guessed. “I don’t know,” Malfoy said, smirking. “I still think you’re terrifically overrated. And a prat who likes to subject everyone to his horrid moods. Oh, and you’re still disfigured.”

Harry put a hand up to the scar on his forehead. “I’m not disfigured.”

“No, no. Trust me; you are.” Malfoy was really very generous. “Don’t worry, it makes me look better in comparison. This is why I’ve let you hound me. Next to you I’m devilishly good looking.”

Harry watched him incredulously. “What are you doing with your face?”

“What? This is my rakish smile.”

“You look like you’ve got something stuck in your teeth.”

“I do not!” Malfoy sounded defensive. “I’ve been told it’s seductive.”

“No, really, you put your tongue behind your lips and you looked really—” Malfoy did it again, and Harry looked away. “You look really stupid.”

Malfoy began muttering under his breath. “I’m going to kill Pansy,” he said, louder.

Harry looked back and laughed. “Come on, Malfoy,” he said, still smiling. “You haven’t told me what you’ve been doing since school. Besides staging a revolt, or whatever.”

“Revolution.” Malfoy’s chin jut out.

Harry laughed again. “Whatever.”

“I’ve always been this brilliant and witty and clever.” Malfoy didn’t put his chin away. “You just never took the time to notice before.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Save me. I meant the part about you and this—cause. You never seemed so . . . dedicated before.”

“You take that back right now, Harry Potter. I was utterly and completely dedicated to exposing you for the lame-brain you were back at Hogwarts. No one appreciated my efforts, but that does not mean they were not zealous and heartfelt.”

“Okay.” Harry’s voice was slow. “You’re saying you’re a fanatic, basically.”

Malfoy was trying to look like Ghandi again. “When it’s about Truth, I am.”

Harry could hear the capital letter. He wanted to be annoyed but he was just shaking his head, smiling. “So when did you decide to stop trying to spread your delusions about me, and exchange it for a more worthwhile goal?”

Malfoy smirked. It was very disturbing. “You said it’s worthwhile,” he pointed out.

Harry shifted in his chair. “I said it was ‘more’ worthwhile. I still think it’s pointless.”

“Maybe I should carry around a dictionary for you.”

“Sometimes you sound like Hermione,” Harry said. That was very disturbing also.

Malfoy considered that, looking like he’d swallowed something he hadn’t decided whether to spit out or not. “Thank you,” he said finally, stiffly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Apparently he was convinced Harry was trying to insult him. “She’s a very bright witch.”

“The brightest,” Harry said. He thought of Hermione, how she might even have liked Malfoy, if the latter could have ever gotten over the initial prejudice. Ron would probably have an apoplexy. Hermione would tell him to forget it, that he should learn to judge people for who they were, not who they had been, and Ron would say he did, and wasn’t supporting House Elves and giants and centaur rights enough? And Hermione would bury herself in her causes, and Ron would have to get away for a while, and then they would kiss, and make up, and go on as before, and Harry wondered whether that was what happily ever after really was.

“You should see them more,” Malfoy said. He was back to dragging a forefinger through the water on the table, but he had obviously seen the path of Harry’s thoughts.

Harry shrugged. “It’s hard right now. They’re . . . they have other things to worry about.”

“So, not their best mate, then?” Taking another sip of the lager, Malfoy still didn’t look at them.

“They lost a baby. Last month.” The words tasted bad in Harry mouth, and he grabbed the pint back from Malfoy. The glass didn’t taste any different where Malfoy’s lips had been.

“Sorry.” Malfoy said it so quietly Harry wasn’t sure he heard him right.

“Not like it’s your fault.” That didn’t taste right either.

“But that’s just it, isn’t it,” Malfoy continued in that same soft voice. “Infants aren’t supposed to die unless there are Dark Lords to kill them.”

Harry conjured up all the disgust for Malfoy he could in his face. “It was a miscarriage.”

“Yeah,” Malfoy said, as if that explained it all. “Perfectly natural. And yet you still feel bad it couldn’t be saved.”

“I don’t.”

“Maybe. But you still hate a world where things like that are true.”

Malfoy took back the pint, began turning it around, looking at it from different angles. “I know what it’s like to be so afraid of death you’re not even really living. And it made me appreciate what I’ve got. And it’s brilliant. Did you know that? Life is really brilliant.”

“I know.” Of course it was brilliant. It was all so bloody brilliant. Too bad so many never get to enjoy it, and there was nothing, but nothing you could do about it.

Harry shook his head. That was just Malfoy claiming to know Harry’s thoughts; it wasn’t what Harry really thought. He knew what the world was like, and he’d accepted it.

“But it’s why I’m doing this,” Malfoy went on. “Protesting against the Ministry. Fighting what they’re doing. Even if Carthage Parris wins, I’ll still have had this. I’ll have done what I wanted, lived the way I thought I should, and it’ll have been worth it. No one can make me afraid like he did—like Voldemort did—again. No one can take away my freedom like that. Because even if the worst that can happen happens, I’ll still appreciate how good I got it. To have survived. Lived.”

“That’s . . .” Harry didn’t know what that was. Of course he already knew all this. That was why he’d fought; that was why he went into that forest to die—because life was precious. “That’s great, Malfoy,” he said finally.

“No.” Malfoy moved his hands off the pint, writing in the water again, nonsense things that didn’t last. “That’s exactly it, Potter; you don’t know how great it is. Intellectually you know, but you’re not living it. You look at your life and you’re treading murky water.”

Harry’s hands tightened into fists on the table. “We can’t all go around waving swords,” Harry spat. “Some of us have already done that and we’re tired. We’re fighting for the long haul, Malfoy—making a real difference, instead of fighting wars that will start again every few decades or so anyway.”

“We have to do both,” Malfoy said. “The only thing we can’t do is sit and watch the world pass us by.”

“Whatever,” Harry said. He tried it again. “Whatever. I do things my way. You can do whatever you want.”

Malfoy was silent for a long time. “Can I?”

“What?” Harry said irritably.

“You never answered my question. From before. About if someone was to turn me in, try to make trouble for me. What would you tell the Aurors? That you’ve been following me? That I admitted to the pamphlet? That you saw me writing the Fortune?”

“That’s it?” Harry demanded. “That’s what this is about? This whole conversation? You just want to know whether I’m going to fucking turn you in?”

“What else could it have been about?” Malfoy was looking at him steadily, calmly.

It infuriated Harry further. Malfoy wasn’t supposed to be calm around him. Malfoy wasn’t supposed to keep his cool around him; he wasn’t supposed to be able to. He was supposed to talk, swift and breathless; his chest was supposed to heave narrowly beneath his thin shirt. Harry was supposed to be able to see the pulse point in his throat and the heat in his eyes, like there was a whole silver metal workshop in there, on fire, pumping bellows, melting hard things, melding something beautiful.

“Harry,” Malfoy said suddenly.

It startled Harry so much he could look back to Malfoy without wanting to clock him in the face.

“Harry,” Malfoy said again. “If you had to choose, one or the other. Would you turn me in? Or would you let me go?”

Harry didn’t say anything.

“What if they brought me in? Just say they did. Just say you had to tell the Ministry everything I’ve been doing. Everything you’ve suspected me of, everything you think I and my friends might be capable of. Either that, or tell them you’ve been watching me, and I haven’t been doing a single thing out of the ordinary. Which would you do?”

Harry closed his hands into fists. His jaw clenched so hard it began to ache.

“Let me put it yet another way. What if you just had to identify me? Just point at me, and say to the Aurors, the Ministry, any of them, ‘yes, that is Draco Malfoy’, or ‘no, that is not’. What if that was all you had to do?” When Harry still said nothing, he asked quietly, “What if you even had an excuse? What if my face was puffed up by a balloon, and you could almost convince yourself you couldn’t be sure?”

Harry was silent.

“No,” Malfoy said. He shook his head vehemently. “Choose, Potter. Either way. Don’t just stand there, not knowing which way to fall, too terrified to make a choice. Don’t let them take away your power to choose. Don’t let them silence you. The worst thing in the world—the worst thing in the world—is silence.”

* * *

Harry had seen Draco Malfoy only a handful of times after the got out of Hogwarts and before he was arrested and brought to Harry’s office to be charged.

The time he remembered best was on Christmas Eve, when Andromeda held a large party for Teddy. He should get to have Christmas at home every once in a while, she argued, and even if he had no parents, that home should still be full. So the Weasleys came, and friends of Weasleys, and Thomas’s, and some Auror friends of Tonks’. And Narcissa and Draco came, because Andromeda had invited them thinking life was too short, and that they would never show.

But they did, and hung in the back and looked washed out and out of place just as they had at the feast after Voldemort’s defeat, until Andromeda realized life really was too short, and went forward to draw them out. Andromeda welcomed them and introduced them around, as if everyone didn’t already know, and Narcissa looked stiff and mortified the whole time while Draco looked lost.

Later in the night, Harry had noticed Teddy missing, and went out into the yard to look for him. The air in the house tasted muggy and warm, full of too many people’s bodies and breath hazing up the light. Out here it was clear, and he could see his own individual breath in front of him, ethereal, alone.

But he wasn’t alone, because Teddy was out there, looking up at the night sky, hair as silver in the moonlight as the tall man’s beside him. Draco was showing Teddy the stars, and Teddy was laughing with delight.

“No she’s not!” Teddy shrieked, full of giggles.

Malfoy nodded solemnly. “Is too. Your grandmum’s up there. So’s your aunt, and you cousins, and all of the Blacks, all the way back to Orion.”

“Why would they live up there?”

Malfoy’s head tilted, exposing white throat as he tipped his head back to the sky. “Some say our past is up there. And our future, all mapped out. And all you’re doing down here is following it. Just trudging along until you die.”

“I don’t want to die,” Teddy said practically.

“Me neither.” Malfoy laughed. “I want more biscuits.”

“And juice.”

Harry looked up too, and could only remember Moody falling from the sky.

Teddy toddled over and told him to look, look, see, grandmum was up there.

Looking down at Teddy, Harry could only remember trying so hard not to drop the baby when he was younger, trying to figure out what to do with him before he could talk, trying to know what a godfather was supposed to be, when his had died before he could really know him. Harry took his glasses off and told Teddy sharply, no, he couldn’t see.

Draco had come toward him with a wand. When Harry started away, Draco rolled his eyes and said, “Shut up, Potter. It’s only temporary.” Then he’d tapped Harry’s temple and murmured something, and Harry could see everything, without his glasses. He could see the stars, he could see the strands of Teddy’s hair fading between black and white as he stood between Harry and Draco, he could see the gray of Draco’s eyes.

Sometimes, behind smudged spectacles, looking out at the world through glass, sometimes Harry could still see Draco clearer than anything, his head bent back toward the stars.

Then he looked at Harry and said, “It’s only temporary,” and the image faded back to gray.

* * *

Three weeks more of keeping and eye on Malfoy, and the Dark Mark flashed up against the sky.

An immediate cry went out to arrest and bring to justice the Death Eaters behind Protestwatch and Our Runed Fortune. They had been causing a stir, lately, and many had been listening, some for the secret program and underground newspaper, some violently against. But with the Dark Mark in the air, the rest who had been waiting to see what would happen realized five years after it ended was too soon to end a war, that Death Eaters shouldn’t have been allowed to live. Carthage Parris led the call for blood.

Three minutes after the news hit the Auror department, Harry made some calls on the mobile Hermione had given him one birthday. Then he Apparated into an alley by a rundown complex in a not so nice Muggle section of London, and ran to one of the tiny flats.

The dark-haired bloke from the Hogshead was behind the door when it opened.

“Who are you?” Harry demanded, and stepped inside.

The bloke backed up. “What—what do you want?”

“There’s a Dark Mark,” Harry said. “Outside Manchester. Where is Draco Malfoy?”

“Y-you’re Harry Potter,” the bloke stuttered. “We didn’t—I mean, we’re not—”

The bloke dissolved into a fit and might have mumbled something about Ghandi. Harry could already taste the blood in his mouth. He only realized after he swallowed that it was because he’d bitten his tongue. “Stop it,” he told the shaking man, and grabbed him by the shoulders. “I’m not going to hurt you; I’m only looking for Draco Malfoy. Just him. Where is he?”

“In . . . Down the corridor.” The man pointed, and slumped against the wall when Harry let go his hold.

Harry didn’t think about the darkness of the corridor as he strode down it. He thought about the end. Malfoy’s stupid happy sitting room, stupid Malfoy.

There are over a dozen people there when Harry burst into the room. They barely fit. It was too warm, too close, and Harry suddenly remembered that Christmas part at Andromeda’s, and wondered if that was the last time he’d seen so many people looking so intimate, and laughing so much.

But Harry couldn’t really see the rest of them. For a moment he was outside, alone, just his breath, under the stars, and Malfoy.

Harry said his name. He had to resist the urge to point. Yes, that is Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy looked up. He had been laughing, too, and there was pink on his cheeks. The laughter fell away as he registered Harry’s presence, but it left a smile on his face, bemused, but at the same time oddly pleased. “Well, Potter,” he said finally, when Harry didn’t say anything. “So glad you could—”

“We need to talk.” Harry jerked his head back toward the corridor. “Now.”

Malfoy stared at him a moment, his face going strangely blank, as if he could read everything that had happened in Harry’s eyes, and knew that Harry was bringing him out to turn him in. This is Draco Malfoy. But then Malfoy shrugged and handed his glass of wine to someone. He made his way through his little crowd, smiling as if he was going on a pleasant jaunt, and Harry remembered thousands of times at Hogwarts when Malfoy swaggered through the crowds in order to make a fool of himself.

He didn’t care. He didn’t care what anyone thought.

He should. “Malfoy.” Harry jerked his arm once Malfoy finally got close enough, and pulled him out into the long dark corridor. The dark-haired bloke’s eyes widened when he saw them, looking from one to the other.

“It’s alright,” Malfoy said, and the man scurried past them both and into the safety of the golden light. Malfoy nodded after him. “Can you believe you were worried over that?”

“You should be worried, Malfoy.” Harry wanted to shake him.

“He’s Nott’s brother. You might remember him from flights of cowardice such as—”

“You don’t have time,” Harry snapped.

The last time Harry was here was to rail at Malfoy about Potterwatch. “It was all silence,” Malfoy had said that last time, and walked into the dark. Harry closed his eyes for a moment.

“We’re having another meeting,” Malfoy said eventually, warily, waiting for Harry to talk. “The Hogshead is so drafty. We’re going to do a picket line. Have you heard of those? Muggles have them, only mine will be so much better, because there’ll be moving signs, and badges, and demonstrations . . . You remember the badges, don’t you? Potter?”

“You need to get out.” Harry’s eyes opened.

Malfoy pressed his lips together. “Awfully cold outside.”

“There was a Dark Mark cast in the sky near Manchester.”

Malfoy went pale, but when he spoke, his tone was light. “You know, when it comes down to it, Voldemort had crap design sense Complete crap. My signs will be so much more sophisticated than his dirty old Mark. Then people will be able to judge we’ve gone our separate ways by our artistic differences.”

“This is not funny.”

“No,” Malfoy agreed. He was bone white, but his voice was steady. “I suppose it really isn’t.” He swallowed something like a sigh. “What are you doing here, then? If not for a good laugh, I mean.”

“You told me,” Harry said. “You said I had to choose.”

Malfoy’s skin was beginning to look kind of gray, and it wasn’t the dim light. He just nodded wearily. “I see. I do admit,” he said after another moment, his lips twitching, the way his smiles always teased before they delivered. “I’ll be glad to see Jimbo again. Do my wrists go in or out?”

He thrust his hands at Harry, bony wrists knocked together. His palms were open like a book, but they were white, the pages empty. Unwritten.

“No. No—I’m not going to arrest you. I’m here to—look, Malfoy.” Harry’s voice was suddenly harsh. “You’re going to come with me.”

“What?” Malfoy’s fingers curled in on themselves and separated. “What are you—”

“They think you did it. I mean—they don’t know who, but they’ll find out you’re behind the wireless program, and—and all of that. They’ll find out and they’ll come for you. Carthage Parris is already shouting your name.”

“Carthy,” Malfoy said with dignity, “is a lunatic.”

“I know. I think he cast the Mark.”

Malfoy’s jaw worked. “You mean you—”

“I’ve been checking him out. The past couple of weeks. Some things don’t make sense. And you were right; he’s quite mad.”

“But why would—”

“Come on,” Harry snapped, impatient. “Think like a Slytherin, or have you forgotten how? He wants at the Death Eaters any way he can get. He’s just waiting for a way to prove to the public that they’re a threat, and you’ve done him a favor by bringing the lot of them together—”

“I didn’t.” Malfoy gulped. “I haven’t. Only the ones that were—that wouldn’t turn around a follow a new Dark Lord, if one came, because you were right, they come and they come and they come again. I never got any of those sorts on my side; they would ruin it; we’d have to start all over. We can afford—we don’t kill, or torture, or hunt. We’re rising above; we’re showing the wizarding world we’re not all—”

Harry shook him. He’d been talking so fast Harry hadn’t heard most of what he said. Harry shook him again. “Listen to me,” he said. “I don’t think it was one of you. I said, I think it’s Parris. Listen to me.” Malfoy’s mouth was opening to spill again. “I believe you.”

Malfoy blinked and shut his mouth with a sharp click. Then: “Why?”

“There’s not time for that now. We just have to go. They’ll figure it out soon. You haven’t exactly been circumspect; I told you you should—”

“No.” Malfoy jerked out of his grasp.

“We have to go now,” Harry said.

Malfoy was slowly shaking his head. “I don’t think so. Very kind of you to offer, and everything.”

Harry had never really been good at resisting punching Malfoy when he really wanted to. It was getting harder by the moment. “This isn’t a trap,” he grit out.

“I know it’s not. Er, thanks for that. . . . I actually mean that.” Malfoy’s voice got weird when it was sincere, stiff and awkward, since it wasn’t like he usually talked that way. “It’s just . . . a bit pointless, isn’t it? If Carthy’s out for Death Eaters, and the Ministry and Aurors and everyone are behind him—they’ll just find someone else to pin it on, won’t they? And since the real Death Eaters—I mean, the ones that are still interested in Dark—are really good at hiding these days, mostly the people the Aurors will get are my friends. All in there.” Malfoy waved a vague hand back toward the living room.

The silence in the other room was heavy. Nott must have told them what Harry had said, about the Mark. Maybe they could even hear the two of them now.

“They’re not . . .” important, Harry had been going to say, but stopped at the look on Malfoy’s face. “They’ll be looking for you first,” Harry said finally. “It will be a while before they start to try to pin it on the others. They have less evidence for them. You need to save yourself first, and then we can—”

Malfoy snorted, then rolled his eyes at Harry’s frustrated look. “Remember what you told me that one time? About including my friends in what was going on? Well, some people do that, Harry. And those people in there—my friends—they’ve been just as involved in everything I’ve been doing.”

Nott had helped him set up the frequency for Protestwatch, Malfoy had said. And since they were all following Malfoy (of all people. God, the irony), they were probably just as unconcerned as Malfoy about getting caught, assured by the conviction that they weren’t doing anything wrong. And they hadn’t been, it was true, but it would look bad—everyone who had been on Protestwatch, contributed to the Fortune. All of them.

“Take them with you,” Harry said finally.

Malfoy looked a little helpless, like he had at the victory feast at Hogwarts, like he had at Andromeda’s. Like he didn’t know where he belonged, and didn’t know who would help him, and like he wanted his mum. Harry wanted to shake him again, to tell him he couldn’t be silent; the silence was over. “Where would we go?” Malfoy asked. “We have no secret places—the Ministry made sure of that when all of us were tried. And who would harbor us?”

“Godric’s Hollow.”

“Whosit what?”

“It’s mine. It’s under Fidelius. Bring them all. Just come now.”

“But why—” Malfoy started.

“Why do you keep asking questions?”

“But your friends,” Malfoy said. “One of the has to be the Secret Keeper, right?”

“They know. I called them already. They’ll be with me on this.”

“The Order of the Phoenix—”

“We have to trust them.” Harry didn’t know where the various members of the Order stood on the current political situation. After all, it wasn’t exactly as though protecting Death Eaters was really the Order’s calling. But Malfoy had said to make a choice, and Harry had. He’d decided to fight, and for him fighting had always meant doing what was necessary at the time, and then dealing with consequences when they came.

He felt like he hadn’t done anything so necessary in a very long time.

Malfoy was shaking his head. “You don’t know—”

“You do what you have to,” Harry said, and for some reason this was what made Malfoy appear to consider it.

His eyes searched Harry’s. “Potter,” he said eventually.

“Now,” Harry said, and they went.

When Malfoy went back into his sitting room to tell the silent people gathered there what had happened and what they were going to do, all his hesitation was gone. He sent runners to Apparate out, contact other people in danger of being hunted down by Aurors who weren’t guilty of anything but following Malfoy’s example of dissemination of information. He set coordinates for another place to gather, where they could Apparate together to Godric’s Hollow. He sounded organized and authoritative, and his hands, which Harry had always thought moved randomly when he talked, looked precise and strong.

Harry wondered if this was how he had looked when he was fighting Voldemort, and whether the lost boy Malfoy had been in the corridor was how Harry had looked since.

But Harry had made a choice, here, now. He knew what he had to do again, and it wasn’t because he was the Chosen One, or because there was a Prophecy, or because he had a piece of Voldemort inside him. He was just Harry, and he was just helping someone he—just doing something he believed in.

Yes, this is Harry Potter, he thought, with a moue of twisted lips, then Apparated to the coordinates Malfoy had given all of them. They prepared to leave the meeting place in groups, so each could reveal the secret to one another. Harry held Malfoy’s and Pansy Parkinson’s hands so they could Side-Along first.

“Don’t get any ideas, Pansy,” Malfoy said, leaning around Harry to leer at Parkinson.

“Don’t get any ideas, Draco,” Parkinson said, and leered at Harry.

Then they arrived at Godric’s Hollow, and Malfoy and Parkinson went back for more.

Harry had some more calls to make: the rest of the Order, and those he had called before arriving at Malfoy’s: George, Ginny, and Hermione.

He was worried about that last. He knew what Ron would say.

“Obviously, you don’t,” Hermione said, when Harry Flooed. “We may disagree on a lot of little stuff, but Ron would never leave his friends in the cold when they need his help.”

“Might if it’s Malfoy.” Ron appeared over Hermione’s shoulder. “Or, oh, that one time with that locket, and we were out in the middle of nowhere, and Harry had no idea what he was doing. I’d totally ditch both of you then.”

“Shut up, Ronald,” Hermione said.

“Harry was thinking it; he just wasn’t going to say,” Ron pointed out, feigning offense. His nose was mostly in Hermione’s hair.

“Don’t worry, Harry,” Hermione said. “We’ll be bringing help.”

“And the Putter-Outer,” Ron said, and didn’t appear to have hard feelings, about this or Harry’s doubt.

A few moments later, Harry pulled his head out of the Floo, and saw Malfoy standing there at the door. He was lounging, lazy against the frame. “Mates alright?” He raised a cool brow.

“They’ll help.”

“Granger and Weasel.” Malfoy pursed his lips. “Well, well.”

Harry hadn’t heard that tone since Hogwarts. He felt a flash of panic, like he might be back there, like maybe nothing had changed, he made a choice and he’d chosen wrong—

Apparently his hands felt it too, because they tightened into fists. “Mr. and Mrs. Weasley,” he grit out.

“I’m not going to change, Potter.”

“I just meant maybe you didn’t need to insult my friends.”

“And I’m just letting you know that we’re going to keep it up. Everything. We’ll still run our wireless program, even though you tried to get me to stop it, even though you think it ruins everything about your Potterwatch. We’re still going to print our paper. We’re still going to be members of this society, Potter. We’re not going to stop living just to keep breathing.”

Harry relaxed, though he was puzzled. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

Malfoy nodded once. “I just thought . . . There will be some people who don’t think we all deserve to be Kissed on the spot, but they’ll wonder why we don’t just duck our heads and keep from being noticed. Why we don’t just keep silent.”

“Well,” Harry said, thinking this through. He shrugged. “You know what they say about silence.”

Malfoy’s lips twitched.

Harry pushed his glasses up. “We’ll just have to deal with it as it comes. You knew it wasn’t going to be easy. I’m not sure even all the members of the Order will be alright with this.”

“But you’re alright with it. Why?”

“I said we could cover that later. Now we have to—”

“We have time now. Answer me.”

“Or what?” Harry scoffed. “You’ll turn yourself in?”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. He came forward. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

Harry felt his breath quicken with Malfoy this close. Maybe because he never exactly stopped wanting to punch Malfoy; maybe he just naturally went on the defensive when Malfoy got close like this. Every muscle in Harry’s body was tense. “You’re the one that said I had to choose,” Harry said testily.

“Yes, you’ve said that. You mean to say you think former Death Eaters should have full rights, and that the people being accused of having been Death Eater accomplices—who never were, by the way, like Zabini’s mum—should be cleared, and—”

Harry was shaking his head. “No, I—”

“I knew there were other reasons.” Malfoy was sneering. His voice was cruel. And under it all was hurt. “What are they?” he spat. “Why are you really doing this?”

“I’m sorry.” Harry’s voice was harsh, because he was sorry, and angry for the truth, and miserable because he didn’t know what that truth was, and confused. “I don’t really know what rights Death Eaters should have, or anything about Zabini’s stupid mum. I didn’t choose them.”

Malfoy was in his face. His nose was scrunched and his pale jaw taut. He looked worse, angry; his skin drew tight so his angles seemed even sharper. “What did you—” he began.

“I chose you,” Harry snapped.

“W-what?” Confusion flooded Malfoy’s face.

Harry backed up and looked away. “I chose you. I don’t care what you’ve done, or what you’re doing; I just wanted . . . You couldn’t go to Azkaban. I couldn’t let them take you away.”

“But . . . why?” The honesty of Malfoy’s bewilderment was so raw, he sounded lost again, and it made Harry even more angry.

“I don’t know! I don’t know, okay? I just know that when I look at you—I can see you.”

“Of course you can.” Harry could tell just from the tone of Malfoy’s voice that he was about to babble nonsensically. That’s what he did when he was hurt or confused or afraid. “Of course you can see, because you’re a specky; I always said you were, but no one would listen to me, and I had to say, ‘look, you, they’re right there on his face’—”

“No.” Harry took his glasses off and took a step forward, Malfoy’s uncertainty making him more certain. Malfoy looked like he wanted to take a step back. “I mean, when I look at you, I see you. You’re clear. Everything else blurs together, but you—you’re straight lines.”

Malfoy put his nose in the air. “I just have a very pronounced bone structure. It’s not my fault I stick out all over the place, Potter; you shouldn’t pick on people’s physical foibles—”

“Will you just shut up? I’m trying to get something out here.”

“Get what out?” Malfoy said, alarmed. “All you’ve got out is nonsense; I don’t understand what you’re saying!”

“I’m saying what you said, about me treading water, that’s true. But I look at you and—I know what I want. I know what to do. Sometimes I see you—do you remember that time? It was Christmas, and you were showing Teddy the stars, and you did that spell on my eyes. I’ve never . . . I’ve never seen so clearly in all my life as I did that night. And all I see—when the world is clear like that, when the sky is light, for once—all I see is you.”

“Oh.” Malfoy fell back a step. “Oh, no.”

“I just mean I know what I’m doing now.” Harry swallowed hard. “And I didn’t before.”

“That’s not what you mean.” Malfoy’s voice was back to being vicious. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Harry shook his head. “I can’t explain it; you just make me feel—”

“This is . . . I can’t do this now.” Malfoy wavered, looking slightly ill.

Harry looked away. “I’m not asking you to do anything. You’re the one that asked.”

“The timing is so very bad.”

“We don’t need timing,” Harry said wearily. “I don’t need anything. You asked, and I told you, and that’s all that—”

“Potter!” Malfoy’s voice was rising. “We’re on the run. From the law. We’re refugees. I’m the leader of a refugee camp, practically. I am not Ghandi. I’m—I’m Lawrence of Arabia; I’m—”

“Malfoy.” Harry put his hand on Malfoy’s shoulder and shook it. Malfoy flinched at the touch, and Harry let him go. “Stop it.”

“God, you can be so dense.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You don’t need to worry about it; it’s not your problem. It’s not even a problem, really; it’s just—”

“I thought you were coming around to my way of thinking,” Malfoy said quickly. “You were so lost, and I thought . . . you needed something to fight for. It’s what you’re good at, and I thought I could use you to help us. I thought I was winning you over to us, our cause, I never realized—”

“Use me?”

“You were there.” Malfoy shrugged. “Seemed to me our needs coincided. I was doing both of us a favor.”

“Oh,” Harry said tightly. “All this time, I thought you’d gotten over your petty hatred of me. Just turns out there were bigger things on your mind?”

“I didn’t trick you! I never meant to make you—how could I have known? How could I have even guessed it was a possibility?”

“You couldn’t,” Harry said thickly. “I didn’t want you to. I didn’t want to. I never wanted . . . this.”

Harry had been thinking Malfoy was being cold, but that couldn’t be true, because Malfoy went cold now. His face went numb and his lips white. “Yes,” he hissed, “I think we’re both well aware you never wanted me.”

“That wasn’t what I—”

“What did you mean?” Malfoy demanded. “Something other than you just want to be normal, when no one ever can be, when no one ever is? Something other than that you need instructions on how to live your life, and that’s why you need to be normal—because now you have no Voldemort, you don’t know what you’re good for? Something other than that?”

Harry was silent.

Malfoy spun on his heel and left.

When Harry heard the door close, he turned around, pressing his forehead against the mantle. He heard himself make a choking sound, and didn’t know why.

He didn’t want to have to deal with this. Any of it. Stupid Malfoy’s stupid assumptions and—and, and wanting to fuck Malfoy’s stupid bony arse, punch his stupid mouth and bite it until it was red and bruised and wanting more—

They should have had happily ever afters. Him and Hermione and Ron. They deserved it. They shouldn’t have grown apart, Harry should have had a family, Hermione and Ron shouldn’t fight like they did, shouldn’t have been losing babies. But shouldn’t-have had to happen, and life was just like war, just like what he’d always done when fighting: you did what was necessary. You did what you had to.

Harry closed his eyes.

Malfoy was there, clear as ever, and Harry knew that would be the case with or without the damn glasses.

Malfoy tilted his head back toward the stars, and Harry knew what he wanted.

Harry opened his eyes and went to find Malfoy. Malfoy’s compatriots, all the ex-Death Eaters and friends of, were still sorting out sleeping arrangements in the other rooms, a blur of noise in the background. Malfoy was standing in the kitchen, alone, looking out the window.

Malfoy didn’t look over when Harry stepped to stand beside him, but didn’t move away.

“You were right,” Harry said. “This is really bad timing.”

Malfoy’s lips twitched, and he turned toward Harry a fraction. “Brighter people than you are have mentioned that.”

“Yes.” Harry’s hand went up around Malfoy’s neck. “You said I’m slow.”

“Yes, you are, and I think—what are you doing?”

“This.”

Harry leaned in, and Malfoy pushed him away. “No, you must have misunderstood. This is not—this, ‘I see you’ thing, this is not reciprocal!”

“Now who’s afraid, and doesn’t know what to do?” Harry stepped forward again, and Malfoy backed up, practically tripping over himself in haste, until he was back against the counter and Harry had him pinned there.

“No.” Malfoy’s breath was still coming quick. Harry could feel his chest moving against his, feel his strong hands gripping his arms tightly, neither pushing away nor pulling, feel his cock coming up against his thigh. “No,” Malfoy breathed again, head turned from Harry, exposing the swift bird’s wing beat of his pulse. “I know what I’m doing. I mean, I’m sure you’re fine, Potter, very manly, but I don’t . . .”

“Don’t what?” Harry leaned in, mouth so close to Malfoy’s ear Malfoy shuddered and his cock jumped.

“I don’t . . . it’s not a good idea,” Malfoy said hoarsely.

“Here’s what I think.” Harry didn’t move away. “I think you’re doing just fine finding out who you are. Way better than me, anyway. But that doesn’t mean a part of you won’t always be that scared boy you were when Voldemort was in your house, when Voldemort was making you do things. I think a part of you will always be too scared to say whether this—” he pushed his hips hard up against Malfoy—“whether this is Harry Potter.”

“No!” But Malfoy didn’t move.

“And you’re so focused on making your own choices this time around, you don’t realize you’re supposed to have that part of you, that’s small, afraid, uncertain. Everyone does.”

“I am not everyone!” Malfoy finally managed to shove Harry back. He stood there, chest heaving, fists clenched. His hair was all askew. “I’m me!” Harry wondered if Malfoy was going to thump his chest. “I’m me, and I have to do what I want. I have to be what I want, I have to be someone, or else I won’t be . . .”

“Anyone?” Harry guessed. “You don’t actually have to be Lawrence of Arabia, you know. Though that blond Muggle that played him in that film was—”

“You shut up!”

“Alright,” Harry said. “But you should know. I walked into that woods, and I knew Voldemort was going to kill me. And I kept going because it was the right thing to do. But another reason I did it was I didn’t know what else to do. Sure, I was supposed to have a choice, free will and that, but it didn’t look that way from where I was standing. It was just something I had to do, and I did it partly because I was afraid. I didn’t know how to do anything else. It’s always like that, Draco. It always is.”

Malfoy was looking at him with his sneer and his balled up fists and his too intense eyes. “I told you this is really bad timing,” he grit out finally, tone accusatory. “I told you.”

Harry stepped forward again, until his breath was tickling Malfoy’s hair again. “Whatever, Malfoy. You don’t have to—”

Harry cut off because Malfoy was kissing him. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, but he was through with not knowing what to do and so doing nothing. He guessed grabbing and holding on tightly wasn’t a bad idea, at any rate.

Malfoy kept biting Harry’s lips, his tongue tight in Harry’s mouth, his hips grinding into Harry’s in a way that hurt when their bones banged and ached when their cocks rubbed.

It was really very good, until Malfoy pulled away and wiped his mouth. Then he leaned back in, forehead almost touching Harry’s, because it was obvious he didn’t want their eyes to meet.

“You’re alright,” Malfoy said, apparently feeling generous. “But we can only do this as long as I’m not in a cell with Jimbo. Then I go straight back into his arms; I’m warning you.”

“Okay, Malfoy,” Harry said. “I’ll do what I can to keep you away from him.” They turned and face the kitchen window again, because it had been a long night and dawn finally seemed to be approaching.

Harry reached down and grabbed Malfoy’s hand. He squeezed so tight he could feel the bones, so hard Malfoy should have been wincing, if he hadn’t been grinding just as hard back.

The morning light was gray.