Archive of Our Own

 10 October 2000 .o°o. Malfoy Manor

Draco Malfoy entered the orangery. The morning after the Dark Lord's fall, Mother had decided they would have breakfast there. "Now that he's gone, we are public enemy number one, and I don't expect the Wizengamot to show mercy. We can do with every bit of solace available," she had said.

Today, Draco wished more than ever that he was able to find the promised solace in the cheerful atmosphere of the place. Squinting against the blaze of the sun rising above the maple trees at the far end of the garden, he pulled back his chair. The colourful lead glass windows sent sparkling rainbows all over the set table. But when Draco sat down, the black of his jumper absorbed all the vivid colours at once.

As Mother's cup and plate were still untouched, Draco assumed she was outside, checking on the progress of her current garden project and giving the house-elves new instructions. Father hid behind the Daily Prophet like he did most mornings. He didn't react to the sound of Draco's footsteps or the creaking of the chair when Draco sat down. Maybe this was one of those dreams, where Draco was a ghost no one could hear or see. Or, maybe, he had actually turned into a ghost, that would explain why he was always cold and numb.

Well, being cold and numb and unsure about being alive or a ghost wouldn't count as an apology in Father's book for not bidding him good morning. Draco cleared his throat, the sound too raw and loud in the stillness.

"Good morning, Father," he said, reaching for the coffee pot.

"It's only a good morning when the coffee is good." Father's eyes appeared above the newspaper, his knitted brows a clear indication that he wasn't having a good start to the day either.

"Today it's awful. I'd kill that elf if I wasn't on probation. Wouldn't be a loss, he'll never learn how to brew decent coffee." Father screwed up his nose. "Is it really that difficult to follow three simple rules?"

"No, of course not, Father," Draco hurried to say. "Only black coffee is good coffee. Only hot coffee is good coffee. Only coffee made without magic is good coffee."

"If even you can remember them, it shouldn't be a problem for a simple house-elf." Father rustled the Prophet back into place.

Draco slumped in his chair. The Dark Lord had known why he made Father his right hand. He had the same ability to suck out every ounce of vitality. Not that Draco had any left.

Sipping coffee, he stared into space, darkness clouding his mind. Just before the black waves dragged him under, a cold draught hit him full force and blew his too long hair into his eyes. He raked his hands through it and tucked the strands behind his ears.

"Draco—" Mother called for him from the door to the gardens. She almost choked on the 'o'. Oh fuck. That could only mean— He looked down at his bare forearms, not remembering when he had pushed up his sleeves. Dark tattooed lines and fresh cuts marred his pale skin, oozing blood in places. It happened more often, lately, that he didn't remember what he had done while he was in the dark place inside his mind. Pretending it was an accident would be of no avail – his blood-smeared fingertips proved that he had scratched the wounds open himself.

Draco admired Mother for her reaction. Without another word, careful not to alert Father, she accompanied him to his room. He did not resist. She wanted to know? Welcome to my hell, Mother.

In his room, Mother sat down on his bed, wand drawn.

"Come here." She patted the mattress beside her. The house-elves had not taken care of the bed yet, but if Mother had seen the streaks of dried blood on the linen and the rumpled sheets, she didn't show it.

Draco closed the door and with a few strides went over to her. She took his bloodied hand and pulled him down. "Episkey."

The cuts closed immediately, leaving only dark lines behind. The outlines of a curling fern frond.

"How did that happen?"

Draco just looked at her, and her face froze. "Please don't tell me you did that to yourself." Only her lips were moving. The war had been lost so long ago, and still she wouldn't allow herself to show emotion.

"Mother…" Draco swallowed. "It's the memories. You have your gardening projects, but I...I have nothing to keep me occupied. And they keep coming and coming...you know, all the things he did and forced me to do...it's like a Cruciatus Curse to my mind! Marking myself is the only thing that... helps. It hurts, but it hurts...I don't know...better? It stops me thinking."

She sat very straight. "I didn't know it was still so hard for you." She cupped his face with cool hands, and he leaned into her touch. "We'll find a way to help you. We always have. But first you have to tell me everything." Her fingertips lingered on his cheeks for another moment, then she folded her hands in her lap.

Draco waved at the bed. "Today I woke up glued to the sheets..."

The house-elves would ring the breakfast bell any second, it was time to get up. But the linen stuck to Draco's skin, holding him down.

His bed was rumpled, and he was knackered from tossing and turning. Bloody nightmares. No wonder the cuts on his arms had split open. Dried blood glued him to the linen.

He freed his right arm, wincing when fresh scabs were ripped off again, and reached for his wand on the bedside table. "Tergeo."

Nothing happened. What the fuck? Draco frowned, shook his wand, squinted in concentration. "Tergeo!"

Again, nothing happened. A close inspection of his wand did not reveal any damage, so Draco closed his eyes, tightened his grip and listened.

His heartbeat sped up when he did not hear the quiet humming of the connection between his magic and the core of his wand. It was as if—

He squeezed his eyes shut with more force and held his breath. Listened once more. Still, nothing. His wand lay cold and heavy in his hand. As if it were—dead.

He must have sat for a while – though he couldn't remember – when moisty coolness wafted over his face and wounds in a light caress, so tender and soothing that Draco sat motionless for a little longer, until he opened his eyes. Mist rose from his wand's tip. Pausing from time to time, the wand produced more and more of the shimmering fog. Draco smiled. Whatever was going on, at least it wasn't dead. But then the cloud settled in its final form.

A silver stag shook his antlers at him. Potter's Patronus.

Draco shivered in the clear morning light and listened to his bitter laughter echoing from the walls. The stag shied away from the sound, turned and disappeared through the wall. Draco opened his fist and the wand fell to the floor.

Wasn't it ironic – not only the whole wizarding world relied on fucking Saint Potter to fix their every problem, but also his wand.

Draco stared at the ceiling for a long time, following the endless chain of golden snakes sidling along its edge. Gold. Father's favourite colour. Father's favourite thing. Father's favourite solution to every problem. Another set of three simple rules. "Any problem is only a question of gold. You can buy anything. Everyone has a price."

Draco got up. He would buy a new wand. As easy as that.

He showered, watching the black of the dried blood on his skin turning red at first to quickly fade into a pale, vanishing pink until the water gathering around his feet run clear. While it swirled down the hole, he wondered if his wand had produced the stag Patronus because Potter was Britain's new wandmaker, or if it had just called for the help of the most powerful wizard it knew.

He sighed. If only Potter's wand shop in Diagon Alley wasn't the only one in Britain. When the Prophet had announced the news of Potter taking over Ollivander's, Draco had been more than tempted to throw the newspaper into the fireplace. Trust Potter to choose a unique career path that would make him even more precious to the wizarding world. Potter obviously had become accustomed to being the only one able to do a job – no matter if it was killing Dark Lords or making wands.

Draco dreaded an encounter with Potter, and he was not keen on showing his face in Diagon Alley, either. Hateful stares and muttered insults were one thing, but from his last trip to London he had returned with torn clothes, covered in spit and dirt. The wizarding society had not forgotten about his special role in the war.

The mirror showed ashen skin and hollow cheeks. Not good. Looking weak would only encourage further attacks. He reached for his wand to cast a glamour hiding his condition. Remembered too late why he was getting ready for a visit to Diagon Alley. His wand hand came down empty, and he grabbed the rim of the sink with both hands, grateful for the cold smoothness. Bile was burning in his throat.

When he had gathered enough strength to face Father at breakfast, Draco left the bathroom and headed for the orangery.

She didn't cry – Mother didn't cry easily – but her forced calm was even worse. He wished he had some comfort to offer. If he promised to stop, it would be a lie and she would know it. Acid pooled in his gut, he hated himself for causing her such anguish.

She pulled him into a hug, her forehead pressed to his chest. When she finally spoke, her voice vibrated through his body. "We have to be careful. If this leaks to the Prophet, you won't be safe anymore. Defenceless as you are…" She sat very still, only her hot breath giving away that she was alive.

"Alright, I know what to do. We'll go to France. Tiffany's is known for their discretion, and some of the world's best wandmakers work there. Especially Monsieur Dubois is very trustworthy."

"But what about the stag Patronus? My wand wants Potter."

"Well, your wand has spent some time with Potter, hasn't it? I think it just called for the wandmaker it knows. Don't worry, dear. Monsieur Dubois has much more experience as a master of wandlore than Potter. Or would you prefer consulting Potter first?"

Draco shook his head.

As soon as she had left, he returned to his quill and ink.


12 October 2000 .o°o. Paris

"I want some chestnut trees for my garden. They must be glorious in spring!" Mother said, while they walked down Champs Élysées to Tiffany's Exclusive Wands And Magical Accessories. Draco tilted his head back. They certainly were mighty trees, the canopy above their heads stretched high into the sky. Big five-fingered leaves, green and brown and bronze, rustled in the wind. Late autumn's soft light fell through the gaps between them, sprinkling the way with golden speckles.

"Ah, here we are!" Mother took his arm and pointed at a huge shop window to their left. Beautifully carved wands made of rare and expensive woods lay oiled and polished on velvet pillows. Still, the Muggles passed it without a glance.

Monsieur Dubois awaited them in a small room which provided more privacy than the shop floor. While they sat down around a thin-legged mahogany table, Draco admitted to himself that he was impressed. Everything about the wandmaker's distinguished appearance – from his neatly parted hair to his tailored robes – screamed expertise and competence. His eyes were dark like a Goblin's, sharp and attentive beneath bushy brows.

"Now, would you please explain to me the details of your difficulties with your wand? May I take a look at it?"

Draco handed over his Hawthorn and described what had happened the morning when it had stopped working. Monsieur Dubois listened without interrupting, levitating the wand level with his eyes for a first inquiring look.

After Monsieur Dubois had heard the whole story and asked a few questions for better understanding, he told them to come back after lunch. "What you are describing is a very serious problem. I need to run some advanced diagnostic spells to be able to tell what exactly we are talking about, but what I can say is, fixing this will take time. If it can be fixed at all."

"Bien." Again, Monsieur Dubois levitated Draco's wand at eye level, and kept his gaze locked on it.

"What we have here is a Hawthorn wand. The wandmaker Gregorovitch, one of the pioneers in wandlore, wrote that hawthorn – I quote here – ‘makes for a strange, contradictory wand, as full of paradoxes as the tree that gave it birth, whose leaves and blossoms heal, and yet whose cut branches smell of death.'"

Monsieur Dubois' eyes left the wand and searched Draco's.

"Hawthorn wands may be particularly suited to healing magic, but they are also adept at curses. So one could think it depends on the wand's owner, in which field of magic the wand will excel. That's what I thought, first. But then it occurred to me I had to take the wand's core into consideration, too. The core of this wand is a unicorn's tail hair. Unicorns are the most innocent beings, pure and defenceless, that's why their blood can keep one alive even if one is an inch from death."

Draco nodded to show he was following, and gestured for Monsieur Dubois to go on.

"After thinking it through, the nature of the wand's problem is obvious to me. Monsieur Malfoy, this wand combines the exceptional healing powers of hawthorn and the unrivaled vital power of a unicorn. It is an extremely powerful tool. But only if used with the purpose to do good. This wand wants to save lives, not take them." Monsieur Dubois' voice rose, and so did his brows.

"Mon dieu, Monsieur Malfoy, what have you done to this wand? I couldn't believe my eyes when my diagnostic spells revealed that it is full of Dark Magic of the worst kind."

He looked at Draco again. More, though unspoken, reproaches hung in the air, and Draco got angry. It was always the same. People only saw the evil things he had done; what he had thought about it or what his reasons had been wasn't in anyone's interest to know.

Monsieur Dubois plucked the wand out of the air and stroked it. "Your wand defied the curses, held them back or at least weakened them. By doing so, it weakened itself; it absorbed a bit of each dark spell. So, with time, a thick layer of… well, darkness, might be the best word to describe it, built up until your wand was completely obstructed."

He lay the wand down on the table and spread his fingers in a helpless manner. "Your wand has crippled itself, and is now unable to perform any spell, whether light or dark."

Draco pressed his lips together to suppress a hysterical laughter. His wand suffered from the same disease as himself. They both were victims of the war, drowning in darkness, their core crippled. In a way, it was comforting. At least they were in this together.

Monsieur Dubois seemed to wait for a reply, but Draco had no words. Finally, Mother's voice cut the silence. "And what are your plans to remove that...darkness?"

Draco could tell their mission had failed when Monsieur Dubois leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on the table. "Unfortunately, Tiffany's Exclusive Wands And Magical Accessories does not deal with anything related to Dark Magic anymore. Not since the war. Nip it in the bud, as they say," he said, standing up in the unmistakable intention to end their appointment. Mother kept to her seat.

"Monsieur Dubois," she said, "in that case, we want to buy a new wand for my son."

Monsieur Dubois did not look as if he liked the thought of selling one of Tiffany's wands to Draco, but inclined his head. "I understand. Please wait here while I gather some pieces that might suit from our collection."

He returned with five wands. Lining them up on the mahogany table, he gave the first one to Draco. "Aspen. Particularly suited to martial magic. Let's see what it does for you."

Particularly suited to martial magic. Draco didn't show he had understood the allusion to his Death Eater past.

He flicked the wand – which looked beautiful, granted – and nothing happened. Getting no reaction at all was very unusual, from what he remembered, each wand he had tried at Ollivander's had at least emitted some red or green sparks, even if it was a weak match.

Monsieur Dubois took the white, fine-grained wand back without a comment, just handed him the next one. "Blackthorn. Best suited to a warrior. Can become as loyal and faithful a servant as one could wish."

Draco began to admire Monsieur Dubois for his ability to disguise his innuendos as compliments to the wand. It was a short, inflexible one which Draco detested from the first touch. Nonetheless, he flicked it, hoping for a rain of sparks.

Nothing.

Nausea welled up in Draco. Something was very wrong. And Monsieur Dubois had noticed it, too.

"Very strange, you should at least be able to produce some sparks or flowers. Did you have similar problems when you bought your first wand? No? Well, there is a first time for everything. Try this one."

Draco knew at once why Monsieur Dubois had not made any remarks. The wand he was holding out for him to take was made from hawthorn. Hope rose inside him, forcing back the churning of his stomach. He drew a sweeping loop into the air, and—

Nothing. Not the tiniest spark erupted from the tip.

Draco's wand hand fell to his side. His wand was crippled, but these wands were brand-new and did not work for him either. If the wands were fine...it must be him! Something was wrong with his magic!

Well, he had seen it coming for a while. Since the war, his magic had seeped out of him bit by bit, day by day. And now it was gone completely, had left him crippled. He had blamed his bone-deep exhaustion and general numbness for its slow dwindling. Had talked himself into believing it would get better as soon as he would get better. But he had been getting worse – sick and weak.

"Draco?" Mother's voice ripped him out of his rumination. "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost!"

Draco exhaled and relaxed his grip around the wand, until it almost slipped from his clammy fingers. He had to get out of here. "I'm very sorry, but I indeed don't feel too well. I think I'm developing a cold. Monsieur Dubois, I hope you won't mind if we interrupt the wand matching for today. Thank you very much for your efforts." He gave the hawthorn wand back, grabbed his coat and was on his way out before Monsieur Dubois or Mother could have uttered a word.

"Draco!" Mother caught up with him. "What in Salazar's name has got into you? Was it really necessary to—"

Draco stopped his brisk stride, turning towards her. "Yes! It was necessary to leave as abruptly as I did, unless you would have preferred me vomiting on his shoes!"

The vertical wrinkle above her nose disappeared, and her eyes returned from slits to their usual size. Her lips curved into a small smile, she said, "Oh dear, you look terrible. Come here, sit down." She took him by the elbow and guided him to a small table of one of the many street cafés. "Now tell me. What's troubling you so much?"

Draco glanced around at the people sitting at the other tables and leaned in closer to her.

"Mother, I've lost my magic. Completely. It's gone, I can't feel it anymore. That's why none of the stupid wands gave the slightest reaction." He watched her, but she sat stock-still, did not even blink. Draco knew how to read that look – when the Dark Lord lived in the manor, it had never left her face. She was horrified.

"Mother?" he asked, reaching out for her hand which was cold and stiff like a statue's. She shivered at his touch.

"If only I had been a stronger woman and left your father when you were a child. We could have gone to France, you could have gone to Beauxbatons instead of Hogwarts. I could have spared you all of this…" She leaned back in the chair and made a vague gesture, including themselves and their surroundings.

After a moment of silence, she sat up straight. "We'll visit my old Mind-Healer," she said, ordering two cups of coffee from the passing waiter. "What? Don't look at me like that!"

Draco closed his mouth.

"My parents were well aware that Bellatrix was the insane one, but even they didn't dare stand up against her and take her to a Mind-Healer. So instead, it was me who went there once a week. And look, I survived. If anyone can help you, I trust it's him."

"Thank you. I'll hang them up myself." Draco reached out for the pile of un-shrunken clothes on his bed.

"Don't bother." Mother waved her wand and the shirts and trousers flew onto the hangers. "I'd rather you lay down early." She opened the connecting door to her room. "I know this is all very difficult for you. How couldn't I?" Her eyes flicked to his arms. Draco repressed the urge to pull his sleeves down further.

"Please, try and get some rest." She looked frail, too pale and bony, though the candles of the chandelier cast a warm light. Not waiting for his reply she turned and left the room.

Draco took the last two items out of his valise and carried them to the desk.

Eager to dip it into the dark green ink and draw, he sharpened the tip of his quill. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and pushed it into the skin of his left forearm. It split open, and blood welled out, red and wet and hot. It hurt. It stung.

Salazar, it was so good to feel again. The numbness was gone. But that wasn't enough. He wanted to only feel, he wanted to forget. He cut deeper.

Red hot agony flooded his mind. Perfect.


13 October 2000 .o°o. Paris

"Permanent Stress Squib Disorder." Monsieur Chaman took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "A very common diagnosis these days, I'm afraid. Most war veterans of your generation, Monsieur Malfoy, have reached the age where the symptoms start to show."

Draco clung to the one word that promised hope. "A disorder. So it can be healed?"

Monsieur Chaman blinked and put his glasses back on. "They all ask this question. I'm sorry, Monsieur Malfoy. As the name says, it's a permanent disorder. If you had come earlier, we might have prolonged the process of the dwindling, but once the magic is gone, it's gone."

"But, Monsieur Chaman, there certainly is something we can do?" Mother asked.

"Mais oui! Of course, there is something you can do." Monsieur Chaman said, and hope flared up in Draco again. "Live with it. It's the only option. Squibs have many opportunities in our society since the war."

Yeah. Squibs do. Malfoys don't.

"I'll prescribe Dreamless Sleep to help with the nightmares. It's highly addictive, so I suggest to use it wisely. And, Madame Malfoy, how to cast a Cheering Charm you know, right?" Monsieur Chaman eyed Mother over the rim of his glasses and closed Draco's patient file with verve.

"Wait," Mother said. "What about obliviating my son of the traumatic memories?"

Monsieur Chaman nodded. "Very good. In some cases that has helped. But from what your son told me, he's been exposed to Dark Magic since the day of his birth. I would have to erase more than fifty percent of his memories, and that would leave him as depressed and disoriented as he is right now."

"No, Mother. Please, let's go home. I don't want Dreamless Sleep." Draco had had enough of Paris. He didn't want to go to the apothecary. All he wanted was his quill and ink.

"But he said—"

"I've tried it before. I need such a high dose, I wake up more knackered than if I hadn't slept at all. It's useless, believe me."

"What about a nice Cheering Charm? Actually, I could do with one myself right now."

"Spare me that artificial glee! It only makes me more restless and my face will hurt from that eternal smile it puts on one's face. Do you really want me to walk around and snicker like an imbecile at the slightest opportunity?"


17 October 2000 .o°o. Malfoy Manor

It was one of the rare, social-event-free and usually peaceful evenings they spent in the manor's library. They sat in their cosy Chesterfields with matching footstools, gathered around the fireplace. Celestina Warbeck's sultry voice filled the room, and Father hummed along to the lines of 'Curse breaker' while pouring them three Firewhiskies – Mother had unexpectedly declared her wish to join them in that habit tonight.

Father pushed the stopper back into the crystal bottle. "Draco, would you please summon me the Who's Who in Wizarding Britain?"

Draco exchanged a glance with his mother. Father's cheerful humming was an unfailing indicator that he was in a dangerous mood, plotting another of his political schemes.

"My apologies, Father, I don't have my wand with me," Draco said, hoping Father would leave it at that. But from the glint in the elder man's eyes, he knew he wouldn't get away with it.

"Accio Who's—," Mother started, but was silenced by Father's forbidding finger.

"No, Cissa, this is between me and our son." A vicious flick of his wand, and the gramophone screeched to a halt. He turned to Draco.

"Take mine," he said into the silence, offering Draco his wand. Draco took it with numb fingers.

"Cast."

Draco's throat was tight. "Accio Who's Who in Wizarding Britain." With a trembling hand, he waved the unfamiliar wand in direction of the shelves full of books. His words faded away, and the silence in the room grew louder.

Nothing happened.

Father's piercing eyes rested on Draco. The seconds ticked by, and queasiness spread in Draco's gut. How he wished to be in his room now, alone with his quill and ink.

"What's wrong with you?"

Draco didn't answer, and Mother jumped in. "Lucius, please, he's just tired—"

Father cut her off with a raised palm. "I'm certain Draco can speak for himself. Don't think I'm daft. Something has been going on lately with you two, and you’re trying to hide it from me. I think the perfect moment to tell me all about it has arrived."

When Father's eyes got that icy, calculating expression, there was no escape. Many Mudbloods had tried to talk their way out of an interrogation conducted by Lucius Malfoy, and Draco had witnessed them break or die in the process. Gaze fixed to the flames in the grate, he said, "It's a kind of post-war trauma. The Mind-Healer called it Squib Disorder. Which means I have lost my magic."

He took a deep breath, and met Father's eyes. As he expected, he found no understanding in them, no compassion, just the disparaging look he had learned to fear since early childhood. Severe punishment had always been Father's reaction when Draco had disappointed him.

"You are no longer my son."


18 October 2000 .o°o. Malfoy Manor

Father had summoned Draco to his study. Without looking at him he announced, "A Squib – that's what you are – can't be the heir to my name. I'm certain you understand your disinheritance is a logical consequence of losing your magic." Father made it sound as if Draco had lost his magic like other people lost their wallets, in a moment of carelessness.

"You'll bear your mother's maiden name from now on. Mister Stratford has prepared the necessary papers. He'll give you your copy. Please don't forget to sign the confirmation form."

Using quill and ink had never hurt so much.


12 November 2000 .o°o. Black Coffee

Spiced Pumpkin Syrup. Draco shuddered at the thought of it, but his customers loved their flavoured lattes, and since it was the Christmas season, Spiced Pumpkin Latte was his top seller. And now all he needed to finally call it a day and retreat to his room, were two fucking bottles of that bloody syrup.

Scratching at a freshly scabbed cut, Draco checked the labels of the many boxes sitting on the shelves in his storage room. He was certain that at least one carton of Spiced Pumpkin Syrup—Ah, there, thank Salazar. Grabbing two bottles, he kicked the door shut. A few steps, and he put the syrup down on the counter and gave his blurry reflection on the chrome frame of the Italian espresso machine the two-fingered salute. See you tomorrow.

Draco entered his room in the back of the coffee shop, and locked the solid wooden door marked Private behind him. He broke three matches before he managed to light a fire. When he returned from a quick bath, it crackled in the fireplace, sending sparks at the colourful, burn-mark-speckled hearth rug. Draco curled up in his armchair, and stared into the flames. Is this real? Am I real? Or is it a dream? Maybe I'm a ghost in a dream.

He got up again and walked over the uneven floorboards to his desk. One cut, one line would be enough to show if there was still blood running through his veins.

You are not my son any more.

Draco had fled to his room, but the words had followed him there. You are not my son any more. You are not my son any more. He pressed his hands to his ears, but it didn't help. You are not my son any more.

He tumbled to his desk. Quill and ink, quill and ink, quill and ink, quill and ink. He repeated the words again and again, filled his mind with them.

Quill. Ink. Green. Cut. Pain. Red. Blood. I'm not a ghost. I'm alive.

Ink leaked from the quill and mixed with his blood and the line looked like an unfurling fern frond. It was beautiful. It hurt, it was pain. It was oblivion.

Until Mother plucked the quill from his hand.

"Draco," Mother said, "I know you don't want to, but we have to talk." She covered the cuts with her embroidered handkerchief and knotted the ends together. No Healing Spells anymore. No fussing over things she could not change.

"Let's go downstairs into the kitchen. I'll make us coffee. A real coffee. And then we'll talk. We have to make plans."

Draco sat down at the large table in the middle of the room and Mother shooed the house-elves out of the kitchen. Then she put the kettle on and ground coffee, filling the room with the aromatic scent. "Magic somehow messes with the aroma. The best coffee is made Muggle-style, I always wonder why—" She spun around to Draco, her eyes shining bright from excitement. "That's it! Salazar! That's the perfect solution for our problem."

Mother was in a state, almost bouncing on her toes. The kettle whistled and she poured the hot water into the glass beaker of a French Press. Taking two cups from a shelf, she carried it over to the table and sat down at the corner.

"A Muggle-style coffee house!" Mother said. "Oh, that's perfect. You'll open a Muggle-style coffee house in Diagon Alley. It will be a great success, even your father would pay a small fortune for a coffee made without magic."

She shoved a full cup towards him. "Can you see how fabulous this idea is? It's the perfect disguise for you. We'll place a large advertisement in the Prophet, and you'll see, they'll love it."

Draco took a sip from his cup and had to admit the coffee was in fact much better than the brown liquid the house-elves usually served for breakfast.

"What do you think?" Mother asked, her eyes still sparkling. Draco nodded, too drained of energy to share her excitement. Her suggestion was the only option. Also, he had once liked brewing things very much.

"Black Coffee," he said, and Mother understood immediately.

"You are a genius! What a perfect name for your coffee house!" She hugged him over the table, upending both their cups and breaking the French Press. That sobered her a bit.

After she had cleared up the mess with a few spells, they got to work.

Draco searched the library for books about coffee and returned with a stack almost too heavy to carry. He started with the book on top, while Mother spent the rest of the night Floo-calling friends and acquaintances. He listened with half an ear.

One of them sold her his orphaned shop on Diagon Alley, and she ordered the house-elves to move some of the furniture of the seldom used wings of the manor there. Mrs Zabini promised to send the best Italian espresso machine available in Florence.

The biggest problem was the power supply. But Mother's connections provided a solution even to this problem. One of her friends at the Ministry recommended a squib who had installed the power lines at the Ministry's new Research Department for Muggle Technology.

Draco moved into his room in the back of the coffee shop before breakfast and started business three days later. Meanwhile, he'd become so used to his new routines he couldn't believe all that had happened a mere three weeks ago.

Since then, he had been reading everything about coffee he could lay his hands on, and Mother had visited relatives and friends all over the world and organised regular deliveries of the finest coffee beans one could find in Africa, Indonesia and Central America.

Draco's wand, which he was twirling around and around with the fingers of his right hand, slipped and fell to the ground. The clatter pulled him out of the memory.

He blinked into the silence and located his wand, which had come to a halt at the edge of the hearth rug, just out of the sparks' reach. There it lay, looking like an ordinary wooden rod. A Muggle would throw it into the fire without thinking twice. For a split-second he was tempted to do just that. His fingers twitched; he hadn't been able to cast a single spell for weeks.

With a sigh he unfolded his limbs. Goosebumps rose on his arms when his bare feet touched the cold floor boards. He fetched the bottle of Irish Firewhiskey from his chest of drawers and picked up his wand on his way back to the armchair. Stretching his feet on the hearth rug, he took a large sip straight from the bottle. At least Firewhiskey wasn't as addictive as Dreamless Sleep. Not as effective either, unfortunately.

The smooth wood of his wand was warm in his hand, orange reflections of the fire danced along the shiny surface. How could it feel and look so alive when it was almost dead? He pointed at the flames. "Aguamenti!"

Silvery mist shot from the tip, and expanded until a proud stag stood in front of the fireplace. He looked Draco straight in the eyes, and Draco stretched out a hand towards him before he knew what he was doing. The stag trudged forward and nuzzled his fingertips, the fog cool and silken on Draco's skin. The big, shiny eyes never left Draco's. There was something soothing and intimate in that caress.

With a last nudge, the Patronus lifted his head with the silver-gleaming antlers, rose on his hind legs and turned on the spot. He galloped straight into the flames guttering in the grate, shot Draco a last look and disappeared.

Draco sat back with wide eyes and a racing heart, fingertips pressed to his mouth. They were cold and a hint of moisture still lingered on them. So the Patronus hadn't been a dream, or a Firewhiskey-induced hallucination. Well, whatever he was, he wouldn't have to go far. Potter's wand shop was just across the street.

What would Potter think when he saw his own Patronus? Would he know? There had been something unfathomable in the stag's silvery eyes… Draco climbed to his feet and hurried across the cold floorboards to unlock the door.

The café was dark, but the tables were sharply outlined by the streetlight. Draco weaved through them with practised ease and slumped into an armchair in the corner offering the best view of Potter's shop. Hoping the shadows would hide him, he pulled up his legs and rested his chin on his knees.

Potter really had outdone himself; the shop sign did not promise too much. Thin branches which sprouted a fresh green leaf here and there despite the season, formed the words:

Wood Of Wands. Draco snorted. Potter had spent almost a year on the run, living in the woods and sleeping in the dirt. No wonder he had turned the inside of his shop into a forest. Mother, though, liked the new design. "Oh, that is much better than Ollivander's dusty den," she had said.

She was right. Potter had created an enchanted forest. Slender trunks of different trees reached from the floor up to the ceiling, the corresponding wands stuck in small holes, looking like branchlets.

All wands were lit by a Lumos. Rosy beams of apple tree wands stood in contrast to the greenish glow of fir rods. There was the white shine of birch sticks and the amber glimmer of chestnut wands. It wasn't fair. While Draco couldn't even manage a single Lumos, Potter had so many. Draco pressed his lips together and dug his chin deeper into his knees.

Saint Potter appeared, balancing a steaming mug to his workbench. He sat down and started polishing a new wand, looking so content and at peace that Draco wanted to puke.

The stag Patronus shot through the wall behind Potter, its silver shine still strong enough to reduce the wandlights into fading fireflies. Potter startled at the sudden appearance, while Draco bent forwards as much as his crouch allowed.

Potter reached out to the stag and allowed him to nuzzle his fingertips. But then Potter did something strange: He conjured a vial and with some sweeping waves of his wand turned the Patronus into a thin waft of mist which he guided into the small glass container with the tip of his wand. He put it down on his workbench and continued polishing the wand.

Draco stretched his back and shifted until he had found a more comfortable position. He slid his hands up into his sleeves and scratched. Pulling. Ripping. Searing. Wet warmth. The smell of copper.


13 November 2000 .o°o. Wood Of Wands

"I want an elm wand for my grandson," the grey-haired wizard declared. "We are purebloods and proud to show it!"

Harry balled his fists under the workbench. "It is an unfounded belief that only purebloods can produce magic from elm wands – I know enough perfect matches to elm wands who are Muggle-borns."

He relaxed when he looked into the boy's face. Big brown eyes, a dreamy expression, a softly curved mouth, a shy smile – this child wasn't made for an elm wand. Though his colours couldn't be more different, he reminded Harry of Luna.

"A wand-matching is a very personal affair. I need to talk to my customer in private," he said to the grandfather and led the boy to the shop window.

"I'm Harry. What's your name?"

"Aurelian…" The boy looked up at Harry with another of his shy smiles.

Harry smiled back. Purebloods and their hang for pompous names. "Aurelian...that's roman, right?"

"Yes, all men in my family are Aurelians, only we have different numbers. I'm Aurelian the Twenty-Third."

"But though you bear the same name, you are different, aren't you? Do you sometimes see things nobody else can see?"

The huge brown eyes grew even wider. "Yes, how did you know?" Aurelian whispered.

"I'm a wandmaker," Harry said, as if that would explain everything. "Have you ever seen a Nargle?"

"No, they are too fast for me. But I know they exist, because they always hide my shoes. Grandfather thinks it's me being stupid and forgetting where I put them, he doesn't believe me when I tell him about the Nargles!" The boy bit his lower lip to stop it from trembling.

"He is only jealous because he can't see them. Best not to mention them to him again if it upsets him so much. You can visit me if you want to talk about the things you see. Alright?" Harry winked, and Aurelian smiled. "And now let's find a wand for you!"

The grandfather insisted on his grandson to try an elm wand, but had to admit the child produced much better results with the applewood wand Harry suggested. Watching Aurelian, Harry became aware that his eyes always looked a bit sad, though he was having fun sending golden sparks at his grandfather. Maybe he was a match for one of the most unique wands Harry ever had created. He circled the applewood log, searching for it.

"Give this one a try," he said when he found it, offering the wand to the boy.

"Why?" Aurelian compared both wands. "It looks exactly the same."

"Yes, from the outside. The one you have has a core made of unicorn tail hair. This one's core is a thestral's."

It didn't surprise Harry when the boy decided he wanted the applewood-thestral-wand. The grandfather payed and left the shop, not waiting for his change. Harry gave the handful of Sickles and Knuts to Aurelian. "Have a good start at Hogwarts!"

Harry waved when the two of them passed his shop window. Only Aurelian the Twenty-Third waved back.

What an interesting match. Who would have thought... He would keep an eye on that boy.

The familiar noise of small metal wheels rattling over the cobblestones of Diagon Alley announced the milk delivery for the new coffee shop across the street.

Not wanting to miss the show, Harry pushed his glasses further up his nose and pretended to cast Cleaning Spells at his shop window. As usual, Malfoy signed the delivery note and proceeded to push inside the first of the four pallets the driver of the milk float left him with.

The huge, arched windows of the coffee shop allowed Harry to see him unloading the containers with his own hands.

Malfoy only wore a t-shirt, showing strange tattoos on his arms. His biceps bulged, straining the sleeves as he lifted heavy cartons of deep-frozen bakery products from the pile in the container. The lines on his arms moved and slid around each other like snakes. Harry was fascinated by them, they made Malfoy look dangerous and promised a hard-core attitude.

Malfoy's wand had sent the ultimate cry for help. But Malfoy would never ask for it. Harry chewed on his lower lip.

A cup of coffee would be nice.

While he waited for Malfoy to serve the customers before him, Harry read the sign attached to the back of the old-fashioned till:

Harry wondered why it wasn't Malfoy's promise of quality. Narcissa Malfoy's maiden name was Black, but other than Black Coffee being a much better name than Malfoy Coffee, Harry saw no reason why Malfoy should not use his real name.

The drawer of the till banged shut and Malfoy looked up. "Welcome to Black Coffee, what can—Potter?"

Harry smiled at that. "Malfoy."

The corners of Malfoy's mouth twitched at the name, as if it had a bitter taste to it. "I changed my name to Black," he said.

Harry chewed on his lower lip and waited for an explanation. It didn't come, and eventually Malfoy rolled his eyes. "My other customers are waiting. May I take your order?"

"Coffee," Harry said. He would deal with the name problem later. For now, he'd just avoid calling Malfoy by his name.

Malfoy rolled his eyes again. "Potter, I know it has never been your forte to be precise. But, please, try and help me. What kind of coffee? A Pumpkin Spiced Latte? A Latte Macchiato? A Flat White? A Cappuccino?"

"Um—" Harry started, only to be interrupted by Malfoy, who rose a flat hand to block Harry's words.

"No, stop, I already figured it out." He narrowed his eyes and gave Harry a quick once-over. "Yeah, no doubt about it. A cup of black coffee it is for you."

"How did you—"

Again, Malfoy didn't let him finish his sentence. "Guatemalan. Small mug."

"What is a Guatemalan?"

Malfoy had already turned around to fill a cup with coffee from a big brewer. "It's smooth and rich in taste." His voice deepened, became smooth and rich itself. "A balanced composition of dark chocolate and soft spice notes with an elegant feel in the mouth." He put the mug down in front of Harry.

Elegant feel in the mouth. Harry had no idea why these words reminded him of the one time he'd returned to the Quidditch changing rooms because he'd forgot his shin pads and caught Nott sucking Malfoy off. His cheeks burned.


25 December 2000 .o°o. Black Coffee

Harry stopped by the streetlight in front of Black Coffee and glanced through the huge shop windows. Malfoy was talking to an old witch, waving an espresso cup at her.

He looked sick. The pale skin of his face stretched too tight over his cheekbones, which cast shadows over his gaunt features. His collarbones poked through his skin at both sides of the small hollow between them, and his eyes darted from face to face, from corner to corner. He never used magic.

Harry rubbed his right shoulder, which had gone numb from leaning on the cold lamppost. Numb. Yeah. That was it. Malfoy was numb. He was functioning alright, but with a total lack of energy or passion; something very bad must have happened to him. Harry chewed on his lower lip. The war had left its mark on all of them, but he and his friends were healing. Malfoy wasn't.

Harry released his lip and rolled his shoulders. He wouldn't force the topic. But he would keep an eye open for the right occasion to bring it up. The old witch accepted a small Espresso cup and pulled out her purse.

The familiar aroma of freshly ground coffee, hot chocolate, spices and pastries washed over Harry when he entered Black Coffee.

"Potter! Welcome back."

"Merry Christmas!" Harry spelled his foggy glasses dry.

"Thank you. What can I get you today?"

"Coffee, please," Harry said.

"Coffee. Of course." Malfoy sighed. Then he looked at Harry with narrowed eyes. Harry waited in the knowledge that it would pay off.

"No Guatemalan today, you look as if you had more than enough chocolate over the holidays. Hm. You need something light—a Kenyan would be perfect."

There it was, that sultry tone that crept into Malfoy's voice when he talked about coffee. Harry hoped Draco would give a more detailed description of the Kenyan.

"Yes, a Kenyan. Bright with a juicy acidity, low wine notes and fruity flavours like blackberry or grapefruit."

Juicy. Low wine notes. Fruity flavours. Harry suppressed a moan, unable to fight the effect of Malfoy's velvety voice and the words, which seemed utterly seductive to him. His fantasy vaulted them into the Slytherin dungeons. There was Malfoy, sipping a dark wine, his lips plush and red from it, throwing his head back in a laugh. Harry wanted to steal the sound from his lips with a kiss. Malfoy's skin shimmered in the greenish light from the lake, smooth and flawless. Looking into Harry's eyes, he opened his lips and closed them around a blackberry, sucking it into his mouth.

"I'd recommend a piece of lemon cake with it, but you look too well fed to be able to consume anything except coffee."

Harry blinked and leaned forward, hoping for the pressure of the counter's edge to hide the swelling in his trousers. Malfoy tilted his head, waiting for Harry's response.

Harry cleared his throat. "Low wine notes and fruity flavours are all I need to be...satisfied."

Malfoy went over to the drip machine which shared the worktop at the wall behind the counter with the grinder and three pyramids of mugs of different sizes. "You're lucky. I started a fresh batch only a few minutes ago."

"How do you do that?"

"What? Start a fresh batch?" Malfoy didn't turn around, still busy with pouring the coffee.

No, idiot, I want to know how you put all these pictures in my mind. "Deduce what I want just from looking at me for a second."

"Oh. That." Malfoy looked over his shoulder at Harry. “Living with a father with a penchant for Stinging Hexes teaches one to read body language quite fast.”

Harry had just opened his mouth to say that living with an uncle with a habit for slaps in the face had taught him one thing or another, too, when the coffee spilled over and Malfoy dropped the cup. “Fuck!” The mug smashed on the tiles and coffee splashed everywhere. “Fuck!" Malfoy shook his burned hand. "Oh, fuck!"

Harry whipped out his wand. "Let me take care of it."

Malfoy turned to him and Harry pointed at the reddened spots. "Episkey!"

The redness faded, leaving nothing behind than skin so pale Harry could see the blueish shadows of veins beneath it. Malfoy's hand looked fragile, the long, bony fingers reminded Harry of newly-hatched fledglings. How defenceless Malfoy must feel without his magic. Harry swallowed, then vanished the mess on the floor and Scourgified Malfoy's trousers and shoes.

"Fuck." Malfoy hung his head. "I fucking miss my magic," he whispered. "So fucking much." He grabbed another mug, filled it with coffee and set it down in front of Harry without spilling a drop. "See? I'm good at doing things the Muggle way, but sometimes—” He shrugged, averted his eyes and took a shaky breath. When his gaze met Harry's again, he took another deep breath. “Can we talk?"

"Sure," Harry said. "Now?"

Malfoy shook his head. “No, not during business hours. How about you come over for dinner tomorrow?”

“Dinner sounds great.”


28 December 2000 .o°o. Black Coffee

"Big Sumatran and a piece of cheesecake." Malfoy started pouring coffee into a big mug the second Harry opened the door of Black Coffee. "Hard day?"

Harry sighed and plucked his fogged glasses from his nose. "Hard week! And it's not that I didn't tell all those people that you can't buy a wand for somebody else without the somebody being there to test it. A wand isn't a gift you can buy like a piece of jewellery!" He accepted the mug.

"Even Trelawney would have been able to foresee they'd all have to return it and make an appointment for a proper wand matching." Harry took a sip and almost dropped his glasses. "Merlin, that stuff is strong! Tell me more about it."

"Sumatran. Rich, earthy, mysterious. The heat, the humidity, the earthy smell of a rainforest, a tiger weaving through the trees—can you taste it?" Malfoy had started challenging Harry’s coffee knowledge, and Harry loved the guessing game. When Malfoy talked about coffee, his voice took on that dreamy, hypnotic tone; his almost poetic, vivid descriptions put pictures in Harry's mind which were hot, arousing, and had nothing to do with coffee.

The coffee in the mug warmed Harry's hand, reminding him of the task ahead. He lifted it up to his nose. Sniffing, tasting the hot liquid, concentrating on the feel—it happened again. The rainforest came alive before his inner eye.

Harry was sweating, his breathing became laboured. Malfoy's skin was salty, too, and Harry's hands sank deep into the soft ground at both sides of Malfoy's body. He was kissing his way down his chest when the birds stopped singing. Danger was palpable in the silence. They lay still, tiny insects tickling Harry's back, and sweat burning in his eyes. The tiger weaved through the trees, the huge paws not causing any sound. Strong muscles bulged and relaxed, green eyes checked the small meadow. The tiger hesitated. Harry didn't dare to breathe—

"Harry?"

Harry swallowed, disguised the moan escaping his mouth as a cough, and opened his eyes.

Malfoy was watching him. "Salazar, that was the most ecstatic expression on a guest's face I've ever seen! Is it really that good?"

"Um," Harry said, trying to concentrate on the coffee in his mouth instead of the bulge in his jeans. "Hmmm, let's see. Very strong, but um… smooth? Mmm… earthy with a fresh note. Exciting, as an overall impression." He beamed, glowing inwardly from hidden anticipation. "And now tell me about it in your words."

Malfoy was still watching him with narrowed eyes. "With your poor performance in Potions in mind, I'd say you did surprisingly well! We still have to work on the wording, though." He sniffed and took a sip himself. Harry quickly put on his glasses in order not to miss the show.

Malfoy shrugged, pouted, raised an eyebrow, and swallowed. "Well, it's good, but I don't get why you would be so over the moon. Now listen to your coffee master: It's a full-bodied coffee with a smooth feel and lingering flavours of dried herbs and fresh earth."

Smooth feel. Lingering flavours. Harry wanted to rub his groin against the counter. Filthy language, that.

Malfoy pushed a plate with a piece of cheesecake towards Harry.

"Here, a small snack. I'm going to lock the door as soon as the old lady over there leaves, and then I still have to clean up and prepare for tomorrow. I'm sorry, but it will take a while until we can sit down for dinner."

"I can help, if you want?" Harry opened his coat to show his wand in the thigh holster, remembering too late that by doing so he also put his bulging crotch at display. Malfoy's eyes lingered there a bit longer than was decent.

"Brilliant."

Harry was chewing on the last bite of cheesecake, when the old witch gathered her bag and left Black Coffee. Malfoy stayed close on her heels to lock the door behind her.

They hurried with the clean-up and Harry earned himself a jealous look from Malfoy when he took care of the floor with one mighty Scourgify. As the last task of the day, Malfoy put his black apron with the silver mug on the front into the washing machine. "I know, you could clean it with a Tergeo, but I like the smell of the detergent. Quite the Muggle I've become, haven't I?"

"Nothing to be ashamed of," Harry said. "I prefer washing my laundry, too. Sometimes the Muggle way is the better way. Isn't that your secret of success?" Malfoy laughed, and Harry liked the sound of it very much.

Malfoy led Harry into his room at the back. Huge pieces of furniture made from dark wood gave it an atmosphere that made it hard to breathe. Harry recognised mahogany, cherry and ebony, all woods he liked to work with himself. But here, if asked for his opinion, he'd have chosen birch, or fir, to brighten up the room a bit. The only thing Harry liked about Malfoy's room was the colourful hearth rug and the wing chair in front of the fireplace. Shiny brochures littered the room, and Harry picked up some of them to have a look. Ah, Coffee brochures.

"Would you light the fire? I hope sandwiches are okay?" Malfoy had already opened the refrigerator at the other side of the room, where a square table and two matching chairs stood beneath the window. "I'm usually too tired for cooking."

"Yeah, of course." Harry went over to the fireplace. "Incendio!"

With the fire casting its warm light and sending flickering shadows over the walls and the floor, the room looked much better, much more as if someone actually lived there. They wolfed down some sandwiches, and Harry couldn't help but notice that the bread was stale, and the cheese and ham were cheap and not very fresh. Harry was glad he had had the cheesecake before.

"I know, not what one would expect," Malfoy said. "But most of the time, I'm too tired to shop properly and end up with this." From the mechanical way he chewed and swallowed, Harry deduced he didn't taste much of it anyway.

"You can transfigure a chair into a second wing chair," Malfoy said, collecting the plates. "I'll get us a Firewhiskey in the meantime."

Harry pondered the suggestion, then transfigured the wing chair. When Malfoy returned, two glasses in one hand, the bottle in the other, Harry sat on a broad sofa and stretched his cold feet towards the fire. Harry watched him, hoping for a delighted smile. Instead, the shadows on Malfoy's face deepened and his shoulders slumped. "I so miss my magic."

He sat down next to Harry and poured the whiskey. Harry wasn't surprised when Malfoy knocked his back in one big gulp. Turning to Harry, pulling his legs up and slinging his arms around them, Malfoy rested his chin on his knees. "Time to talk."

He told Harry about his long way down, and Harry listened and listened, as more and more scenes of the war and of the Death Eaters' killing sprees burst out of Malfoy like pus oozing from a wound. While he was talking, Malfoy's hands crept into the long sleeves of his shirt, moving up and down his arms. When he took a sip from his tumbler, there was blood on his fingertips. Harry fumbled for his wand. "Let me—"

Malfoy looked up at him. "My well-kept secret."

"Oh, um…so you don't want me to…?"

Malfoy shook his head. "What for?"

Harry pushed his wand back into his holster and chewed on his lower lip.

Malfoy poured himself another Firewhiskey and waved the bottle at Harry with raised eyebrows.

"No, thanks. Still busy with the first one." Harry lifted his tumbler and swirled the golden shimmering liquid.

Malfoy kept drinking, Malfoy kept scratching. It was hard to watch and not be allowed to help. It was hard to listen. Harry put the glass away, fearing the whiskey would make him throw up, nauseated as he already was from Malfoy's recount. He wanted to squirm and scream at him to stop it, but he sat still and listened.

Malfoy knocked down the rest of his fifth Firewhiskey. "Now you know the whole sordid story." He fell back into the soft cushions, pale and with his eyes sunken into their sockets. His fingertips left bloody traces on his glass.

Harry slouched, too. Merlin!

Malfoy kept staring at his blood-smeared glass like he was hypnotised, so Harry reached for it and put it aside. "Malfoy."

Malfoy's hands fell onto his stomach, and he lifted his gaze to meet Harry's. To lend his words the right emphasis, Harry took one of Malfoy's motionless hands into his. "Phew," he said.

Malfoy barked out a croaky laugh. "That's all you have to say?"

"No, um, it's just that 'I'm sorry' doesn't feel appropriate, and I don't know what else to say—oh, come on, you know I'm not good with words." Harry squeezed Malfoy's hand. "But one thing I know, and I want you to believe me."

Malfoy said nothing, just raised his brows.

"None of that was your fault," Harry said.

Malfoy averted his eyes. "Mother said so, too."

"But you don't believe her."

Malfoy shook his head, eyes fixed on their joined hands. "How could I? I know what I've done, and she would say anything to make me feel better. She's my mother."

"Look, Voldemort would have found someone else to help him if you hadn't done it. It all would have happened anyway. I wish I could show you the prophecy. It all had to happen, otherwise I would have never been able to kill him."

Malfoy looked up, and Harry was more than glad to discover a spark of liveliness in his eyes.

"In fact, if you had given away my identity, it would have been over right then and there. See what I mean? You helped me to accomplish my mission; you and your mother kept me alive during those last hours before the end."

"But I—"

Malfoy closed his mouth when Harry shook his head and said, "I know exactly what you went through. I made a similar decision. I gave in to his demand, I went to him and allowed him to kill me, because he had promised to spare my friends if I did. You did what he ordered you to do, because he threatened your parents. See? We both would have let him win to ensure the safety of the ones close to us. I didn't know I would be granted a second chance. I just didn't see any other way."

Harry had dropped his gaze while he was talking, and when he looked up, Malfoy nodded in understanding. Harry locked eyes and said, "And neither did you."

Malfoy looked back quiet and bright-eyed, and Harry could tell his words had made an impact. A bit shaken himself, he smiled. "Some brave heroes we are, aren't we?"

Though Malfoy was obviously fighting it, a strangled sound escaped him, and then all dams broke. He turned to the side and hid his face in the crook of his elbow. The hard, dry sobs and the way his shoulders shook along with them clawed at Harry's heart, and he pulled Malfoy up into a hug, knowing he would want someone to hug him if he was in such despair.

"It wasn't your fault," he kept murmuring in Malfoy's ear, combing his fingers through Malfoy's hair.

Eventually, Malfoy sniffed for a last time and freed himself from the embrace. Harry let go.

"This is all such a mess." Malfoy raked his fingers through his hair, tucking it behind his ears. Some strands fell right back into his face. He got up and went to his chest of drawers. When he returned, he held his wand out for Harry to take it. "Will you have a look at it?"


30 December 2000 .o°o. Draco's Room .o°o. Harry's Flat

Draco climbed into the tub, grunted and stretched his aching muscles in the hot water. As he rubbed his arms, the lemon soap bit into the fresh cuts. It stung, and the demons lurking in the corners of his mind retreated. They would come back, but for now he was safe.

Dinner with Harry Potter. And he was looking forward to it! Draco slid deeper into the water. It was hard to lay a finger on what had changed between them.

What would Father say to all this?

Draco sat up with a start, sending a huge wave over the rim. Father! Father had always told him what to think and what to do. Whom to befriend and whom to hate. But Father had disinherited him. You are no longer my son. That was one way to see it, but it also meant… Draco's heartbeat sped up. He was free!

How exciting! Not having to deal with Father's manipulations anymore – what a wonderful prospect!

Staring at the all-black contents of the drawer, Draco wished he'd brought at least one of his coloured robes from the manor. Harry would certainly wear one of his brightly-coloured jumpers, and Draco would look like a sad bat in comparison, wearing all black.

But rummaging around in his drawers did not help – all his things were black. Well. Fuck. If anyone should wear black as a trademark, it was Draco Black!

He slid into his best form-fitting black trousers and a soft cashmere jumper. Closing the last clasp of his dragonhide boots, he straightened up in front of the mirror. Not too bad. And like Mother used to say: A smile is the most beautiful accessory.

He flashed his teeth at his reflection, checking the effect. Mother was right, like so often. If he smiled, it'd draw attention away from the dark shadows under his eyes, and— No. No, that was really too far fetched. No one would mistake his hollow cheeks for dimples. But anyway! Not too bad, indeed!

Harry opened the door, not wearing his glasses and with damp hair sticking up in all directions.

"Sorry!" He was panting. "I just came out of the shower and put on my jumper when I heard the bell. I guess I look a bit dishevelled." He ran a hand through his hair, only worsening the mess.

"Good evening to you, too," Draco said, looking him up and down. Harry's skin still glowed from the shower, and without the glasses his eyes were bigger, their green flashing untamed. "May I come in?"

"Oh, of course, sorry, yes!" Harry stepped aside to let him through. "Up the stairs and through the door on the right."

Harry's flat was warm, and Draco's mouth watered at the aroma of beef cooking in wine. He left his dragon hide boots at the door, shoved his cloak and scarf into Harry's waiting arm, and walked on in his stockinged feet.

Entering the kitchen, Draco knew at first glance where Harry planned for him to sit. His wand was lying beside one of the two plates on the table, and he could barely suppress the urge to grab it and try a Lumos.

Mustering just enough self-restraint to let it be for the moment, he walked over to the stove instead. He used one of the tea towels to lift the top of the cooking pot and took a sniff. Fresh herbs, red wine—Harry was cooking Boeuf Bourguignon for him.

"Smells good, doesn't it?"

Draco looked over his shoulder to find Harry leaning in the kitchen door, watching him.

"Good? It smells heavenly!" He put the lid back and turned around, crossing his arms and facing Harry. For a moment, they just looked at each other, an awkward silence spreading between them. Then Draco remembered his manners.

"I didn't know you were fond of French cuisine." He raised an eyebrow. Harry grinned in reply, waving for Draco to come and sit down with him.

"I'm not, but I know you are. So I asked Fleur, and she recommended Boeuf Bourguignon."

"Very good advice. Did she recommend the wine, too? I don’t think even the house-elves at the manor used a wine as expensive as a 1999 Château-Lafitte to cook the beef in." Draco pointed at the bottle standing on the table and winked at Harry. "So, no matter the taste, yours is probably the most pricey I'll ever have."

"I'll drink to that!" Harry poured the wine, and they clinked glasses. Draco had not had wine since he moved out of the manor, and he relished the rich aroma and smooth finish.

Harry put the pot on the table, then went to get the potatoes. Filling their plates, he said, "Fleur mentioned the French never talk business during meals. I like that tradition." He sat down and smirked at Draco. "So, what do you think of my cooking skills?"

Draco savoured the delicious explosion of the intense tastes of herbs, tannins and cherry notes from the wine. It was pure harmony.

Draco took a deep breath and emerged from his inner journey. "It's...good. Though I have to say the wine is too dominant and the beef is a bit dry, and less salt would have been a good idea." He smiled at Harry, eyes wide and innocent.

Harry's smile faltered. "What? I followed the recipe to the letter—" He looked at Draco, chewing on his lower lip. Then he tilted his head and smirked. "I don't believe you. Ha, you just want to punish me for making you wait for the news about your wand!"

"What gave me away?" Draco asked, smiling broadly.

"Look, I've learned some things about you during the past weeks. I can see when your appraisal comes from the heart. And right now I'm seeing nothing."

Draco dimmed his wide grin down into an apologising smile. "Well observed!"

"Nothing," Harry repeated, lifting his gaze to meet Draco's. "So, Monsieur, and now your honest opinion, please. And if you'd be so kind to use as many French words as possible." Harry leaned back and spread his napkin over his lap where a subtle bulge was visible. Only a crease in the fabric...most probably.

"Very well. Ton Boeuf Bourguignon est délicieux. Une composition très balancée et harmonieuse. Le vin est formidable. Merci beaucoup pour preparer quelque chose si compliquée pour moi."

Obviously he had done something right; Harry's gaze was glassy when he opened his eyes, and a lazy smile lingered on his lips. Draco glanced down to the napkin – the bulge had intensified.

Harry crossed his legs and cleared his throat.

"Thank you." His voice was hoarse. "Not sure, though, if you didn't hide an insult somewhere between these beautiful words, but anyway. I really like it when you do that. Now eat up, you're going to need your strength."

"Hey! Salazar forbid I forget about my situation for a second!" But the meal was too delicious to stay angry. With a sigh, Draco finally put the cutlery down. "It's a pity I can't eat more."

"Would you take the wine and your wand and sit down in the living room? I'll take care of the washing up and join you in a sec." Harry was already floating their plates over to the sink where the washing brush was hovering in the air, foamy and dripping.

In the living room, Draco snuggled up into the green sofa in front of the fireplace and inspected his wand for any changes in its appearance, but it did not look any different. Dark hawthorn, the surface smooth and the design simple.

Harry flopped down at the other end of the sofa, hastily steadying his glass to prevent the wine from spilling over. "Alright. Let's talk business." He put the glass aside and leaned towards Draco. "Promise you will hear me out, because you might not like what I'm going to say."

Draco nodded, stomach tight from anxiety. "Shoot."

Harry shifted, moving closer to Draco. "I don't believe that old French Mind-Healer. Squib Disorder, fuck that shit! Dreamless Sleep and Cheering Charms, Merlin! That's as dark age as it can get, really! Whenever they don't know what's wrong, they diagnose a disorder. How very convenient."

"Well, he seemed to be very sure about it." Draco twirled his wand.

"Sorry, needed to get that out of my system. Yeah, he might be sure about it, but I still don't believe he's right. Look, since you told me your story, I had the nagging feeling that there's more to it. So I've spent some nights in Ollivander's archive and found some very interesting information."

"What do you mean?" Draco looked up from twirling his wand.

"The main part of what this Monsieur Dubois told you is correct. Your wand, true hawthorn-unicorn-character that it is, did its best to protect you and also the ones you aimed the Unforgivables at and—"

"You know why I—"

"Yes, calm down. The thing is, no matter the amount of goodwill, eventually the capacity of your wand to contain Dark Magic was exhausted. You were still able to cast spells, but you may have realised they were weak and that you were getting worse."

"Well...yes, things were spiraling down very fast from there." Draco returned to twirling his wand. It was that or scratching.

"Yeah, that was because the Dark Magic in you didn't have an outlet anymore. It's a mystery to me how you're still able to breathe, filled up with horror as you must be."

Draco stabbed at Harry with his wand. "So what can I do about it? I would do anything to get rid of all the ugly things haunting me day and night!"

"Well, don't say that if you don't mean it. I might take you at your word! First, I have to fix your wand. There are old and complicated ceremonies described in Ollivander's archive, but I figured out a short-cut. For the next step, you have to trust me. I have a very unusual suggestion for you, which I don't think you'll like. "

Draco twirled his wand faster. "So you said before. Now spit it out, before I really stab you with my wand!"

Harry threw up his hands in feigned surrender. "Alright, alright." His left hand landed on the high back-rest of the sofa, and he leaned in further. Draco put his wand down and didn't even try to hide his hands disappearing into his sleeves to start their bloody work. Harry's gaze flashed down to them, but he didn't say or do anything.

"It's an experimental approach and I have no assurance to offer other than my strong belief that it'll work out. I need access to your mind, and you have to open up entirely."

Draco scratched harder. No way. Never! He pressed his lips together. Although, on second thought...if he would really get back his magic… Oh, fuck it. He squared his shoulders and met Harry's eyes. "I don't really have a choice, do I? If you are sure it'll work out… Welcome to my private hell!" He pointed at his temple.

Draco inhaled deeply. Harry's shop smelled of freshly-cut wood and polish, and a memory of himself, polishing his broom in the Quidditch shack of Hogwarts, flashed through his mind.

Harry walked to a clear space in front of his workbench. Draco trailed behind him and took his time to look around. Wood of wands. Indeed. The many Lumos-lit wands shed a warm light and softened the edges of the shadows drawn by the streetlight.

Some raw branches of different woods were piled up beside the workbench. Draco remembered the chaos Harry used to produce during Potions class, and was surprised by the neat row of clean tools lying on the right side. Some wands in several states of completion lay on the left.

Harry stopped and turned around to Draco. "Give me your wand, please."

Draco handed it over, and Harry cast two Bubble Charms, covering tip and end of the wand. "That's because I don't know to which side the Dark Magic will escape."

"You won't tell me about that shortcut, will you?" Draco had a bad gut feeling about it.

"No, don't want to ruin the surprise effect. Now step back, please."

Draco did as Harry asked, and Harry raised his wand. "Protego!"

Magic sprang from the tip, spreading over Harry's head like a huge, glimmering umbrella, flowing down from the edge until Harry and Draco's wand were completely enclosed.

While Harry arranged his feet into a battle stance, it occurred to Draco that what Harry was going to do was very dangerous. Dark Magic was unpredictable, and Draco was suddenly afraid of what might happen when the unholy mixture of uncounted dark spells accumulated inside his wand got set loose. He scratched his arms.

His nails dug deeper as Harry levitated Draco's wand at eye level in front of him. Though the wand looked ridiculous with the two bubbles attached to it, Draco's blood ran faster when Harry narrowed his eyes and flicked his wand at Draco's in a whipping movement.

"Waddiwasi!" Harry's yell ricocheted from the walls, and Draco involuntarily stepped back, not trusting his ears. In his book, Waddiwasi was a spell to remove gum out of, say, a keyhole; applying it in the current context would never have come to his mind.

But it seemed to work. His wand was twitching in the air, darting to the left, shooting to the right. And then, while Draco was gawking, the left bubble swelled quickly, taking on a grey tinge. The other bubble stayed clear, and Harry turned to Draco, winking and flashing a smile. The alarm bells in Draco's mind still blared deafeningly. That had been too easy—

Draco saw it first. "Harry!" He pointed at the right bubble, which was filling fast, but it was too late. Exploding, it gave free a black cloud, the sound echoed in Harry's scream. Darkness expanded inside of the Protego, swirling slowly, close to the floor. It leaked up Harry's legs, gaining speed and power while Harry stood there, frozen and staring. Just in the last split-second before the sinister vortex swallowed him, his eyes flicked to Draco, and then he was gone.

Draco was out of his mind, frantically hitting the wall of magic with his palms and fists, leaving bloody prints. "Harry! Harry! Can you hear me?"

He tried to pierce the black cloud with his eyes. There, Harry's silhouette, crouched in a fetal position. Draco's thoughts were racing, searching for something he could do. He dropped down to his knees to have a better look at Harry, who was protecting his head with his arms.

As if following Draco, the darkness stilled and ran down the magical pane, thick like oil. For a moment, the sphere was clear and quiet. Harry didn't move.

Then, the kaleidoscope of horrors began to turn, leisurely, as if it had all the time in the world. The black cloud gained momentum and swirled faster. Moments later pale green lightning shot down at Harry in quick succession. The hollow echos of Avada Kedavras, yelled in different voices, reverberated inside the small dome like thunder. Hearing Harry's desperate cries, Draco hated himself for being so useless.

When the evil chorus faded, Harry just lay there, his head buried in his arms, and Draco couldn't tell if he was still breathing or not. A shrill, female voice screamed Crucio, and the short break was over. All voices joined her with unbroken force. Harry got attacked by red lightning again and again, he writhed and wailed at every hit. Yet, Draco was relieved to see him alive.

Harry crawled away from the centre of the torrent of hatred, out of Draco's sight. Draco ran around the magical sphere to get closer to him and dropped to his knees. Harry lay motionless along the curved line where the shimmer in the air touched the floor. The evil tempest was still speeding up, howling like a harpy, pulling at Harry's hair and clothes.

"Harry!" Draco pummeled the sheer wall where Harry's back pressed against it, hoping he would hear him over the storm. And thank Salazar, Harry turned around, his face only inches away from Draco's. Now was the moment to do something, to say something, to help Harry save himself, because Draco couldn't do it; if Draco only knew—

"A Patronus," he shouted, pressing his forehead to the solid layer of magic. "A Patronus!"

Harry nodded, hitting his forehead with his palm and rolling his eyes. He jumped to his feet and took up battle stance again. His wand hand shot up, and the familiar silver stag burst from the tip.

The darkness retreated, and the stag lowered his head, aiming his antlers at the black swirl. Draco watched in awe. This one was the real thing, shining bright like a star and swallowing the dark cloud as if it was nothing. Then the stag turned around to Harry and bowed his head again, pawing the ground. Harry flicked his wand, and the shimmer in the air was gone. The Patronus nuzzled Harry's wand hand and dashed off through the shop window.

"Harry! Harry, are you okay?" Draco lunged at Harry, and pulled him into a tight hug. Harry slumped in Draco's arms. He shivered, though he was hot and sweaty.

"Harry?"

Harry breathed in short, shallow puffs, sending hot gusts of air over Draco's neck. Draco supported him with one arm and pushed a sweaty black lock out of Harry's face.

"Harry, can you hear me?" Draco heard the desperation in his own voice, but fuck it – he was desperate. Because Harry was not okay.

"Chocolate." Draco looked down on Harry's face in bewilderment. Harry's eyes met his, and again he whispered, "Chocolate."

"Chocolate. Alright. Let's get you up onto the sofa, and then I'll bring you chocolate." He slung an arm around Harry's waist to support him, and Harry clung to him like a limpet.

"Wait." Harry aimed at Draco's wand which had dropped to the floor. "Don't you want to take your wand with you?"

Draco had to strain his ears to understand him. "Are you sure you can stay upright on your own?"

"Yes. But hurry."

Draco did. Wand in hand, he returned to Harry to grab him around the waist once more. Harry's arm was heavy on Draco's shoulders when they climbed up the stairs.

"Chocolate," Harry croaked again, sliding down Draco's side into the softness of the sofa. Draco fetched some chocolate and poured himself an Ogden's, adding two ice-cubes.

Harry took a huge bite straight from the bar and munched with closed eyes. Draco knocked down the Firewhiskey, grimacing when the ice-cubes slid down the glass against his teeth. While he waited for the whiskey to warm his cold limbs, his heartbeat calmed down, and he was very relieved when the unusual pallor of Harry's face receded.

Crumpling the chocolate wrapper into a small ball, Harry sat up and looked at Draco. "Was that similar to what you're carrying around with you day and night?"

Draco put the glass down to the floor and broke a piece of chocolate from Harry's bar. "Yes. Charming company, right?" He folded the wrapper into a sleek paper glider and aimed for the fireplace. But the paper glider flew a wide curve and fell to the floor right in front of his feet. Picking it up, Draco glanced sideways at Harry. "You're okay, Harry? I mean, really okay? You looked as if you were in real pain."

"Chocolate is the best medicine," Harry said.

Draco put the chocolate into his mouth. It melted on his tongue and the instant sweetness was almost sickening. "Not for me, I guess."

"Remus told me after I had fainted at my first contact with a Dementor. If it helps getting over that, it sure helps shooing off the after-effects of some foggy Dark Magic!"

He pulled a leg up onto the sofa, stretched it out and nudged Draco's thigh with his toes. "I think I have a much better understanding now of what you mean when you're speaking of a kaleidoscope of horrors!"

Draco swallowed the last sticky traces of chocolate. "And that's, er, good?"

Harry nudged him again with his foot. "Yes. Now I know why you look so strained all the time. Keeping that from your mind must be a war of attrition."

"It is. Um, Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think my wand is fine now?"

"Absolutely!"

Draco looked down at his wand with a pang of guilt. Silently promising never to think bad of it again, he stroked it, glad for its warm, familiar presence in his hand. At least one of them was whole again.

In a much brighter spirit, Draco aimed the paper glider at Harry's nose. "So what's the next step?"

Harry took the small plane, which had landed on his chest, and lifted it up to his face. "Well, well. One should expect a 'thank you', at least, don't you think? But no, one little step in the right direction, and Monsieur I-changed-my-name-to-Black is back to his old annoying self."

Draco pinched Harry's toe. "I'll stalk you with my gratitude when I have my magic back."

Harry sat up and inched closer to him, until their knees touched. "Look, I know you can't wait for that moment to come." He cupped Draco's face and ran his thumb along his cheekbone. "But when I enter your mind, I want to be in top form. Not as drained as I am right now."

Draco turned his head and pressed his lips to Harry's palm. "You are in my mind, already."

Harry blushed. "So you...want to...um, continue...this?" Draco's lips were soft and warm when he ran his thumb over them.

"Mhmm…" Draco murmured, gliding the tip of his tongue along Harry's thumb.

Harry threw all caution to the wind and his glasses to the floor beside the sofa. He was sitting close enough not to need them. With two fingers he fished an ice-cube out of Draco's empty tumbler.

"Is it so hot in here or is that only me?" He held Draco's gaze and started licking at the ice-cube, slowly guiding his tongue over it. Draco's eyes dropped to Harry's mouth.

"Harry, what—"

"Look at me. You always know what I want when you look at me and listen." Harry took the ice-cube between his thumb and middle finger and let his head fall back, exposing his stubbly throat. Starting at his lips, he rolled it down from his chin over his Adam's apple down to the small hollow between his collarbones. It left a cold and wet trace on his skin, and Harry hoped he wasn't the only one who could hear the purring of arousal. Through half-shut lids he looked at Draco who sat frozen to the spot, staring at him with wide eyes.

"No? You can't hear it? Maybe you have to do it yourself?" Harry sat up and took Draco's hand, wrapping it around the small piece of ice. "Listen!"

A shiver ran through Draco's body. "I—" He closed his eyes for a moment. "I can hear it," he whispered, and when he opened them again, Harry believed him. They were almost black, and Draco's breath became fast and shallow.

"Show me," Harry said. "I need to see."

Icy drops wetted Harry's thigh when Draco opened his hand to pick up the melting ice-cube. Draco stuck out his tongue and let the ice-cube glide down from his teeth to the tip, giving the ice a short lick at the end.

Locking eyes with Harry, he sent the ice-cube the same way Harry had done – starting at his lips, it marked its way with a broad glistening trail, slid over his smooth-shaved throat and further down. When it came to rest at the pale hollow of his throat, he sank back against the armrest and pulled his jumper over his head.

Harry's gaze was glued to the ice-cube. It shimmered golden in the light of the fireplace, a small flame dancing on Draco's skin, setting Harry's own on fire. Draco threw the garment aside, and Harry saw the whole of his tattoos for the first time. He gasped at the sight.

Draco was beautiful. His skin reflected the shine of the fire, and the dark green fern fronds on his arms unfolded and curled as if woken up by the light. A single vine unfurled down from his shoulder over his chest, circling a pale rosy nipple. It ran parallel to a thin white scar, and only by noticing a crude pattern of similar scars stretching across Draco's upper body, Harry understood. Sectumsempra. He had inflicted his own set of scars on Draco and never apologised. He would make up for it. Later.

Draco looked exotic and powerful, like a snake charmer of a foreign, far-away land, or a druidic fighter of a long gone era. Harry wanted to touch him, wanted to explore every dark line. Wanted to run his tongue along each scar and press his lips to the smooth, pale islands in between.

A small puddle of molten ice had gathered in the hollow beneath Draco's Adam's apple, and when Draco sat up, the small remnant of ice slid down his chest in a glittering cascade. As if a spell had broken, Harry blinked and followed it with his eyes, until it came to a halt at Draco's navel. The sharp arches of Draco's hipbones rose from the black fabric of his trousers, and Harry heard them calling for his grip.

The ice-cube was gone; only a bead of water shimmered in Draco's navel. With a moan deep from his throat, Harry got up an all fours, spread Draco's legs with his own, bent down and licked the water from his skin.

"Do you see me now?" Draco's voice came from far away.

"Yes." Harry followed the path of the ice-cube with his lips. Reaching the ink-enclosed nipple, he bit down gently, curious if he would feel the vine moving under his tongue. He didn't, but the picture was so deeply burned into his brain that he could see it. Letting go, but feeling the sensitive flesh hardening further from the touch of air, he asked, "Did you listen?"

"I did." Draco pulled at Harry's hair to make Harry look at him. "But it was not loud enough. Will you make me hear all of you?"

"I will."

He brushed Draco's lips with his. "What about that?"

"Not enough." Draco's breath ghosted hot over Harry's face. "Make me."

Harry didn't want to talk anymore. His lips sank down onto Draco's, and then they were kissing, kissing and kissing and kissing. Draco's soft lips pressed against his, his tongue slid into Harry's mouth, warm and wet and curious, and Harry saw the fern fronds again, curling and unfurling in the rhythm of their kiss.

After a long while, he nibbled along Draco's jaw until he reached his ear. Exploring the shell with his tongue caused Draco to moan and writhe under Harry's body. Harry let go and brushed his lips over the spot beneath Draco's chin, where the pulse of life beat fast and strong. He closed his teeth around Draco's throat, and Draco moaned again.

Crawling back a bit, Harry got up on his knees and traced the lines of Draco's collarbones with his hands. Closed his eyes. Bones and hard muscles under the smooth, warm skin, soft valleys in between. Gooseflesh under his touch, appearing and disappearing. More moaning, louder. More urgent.

Harry shifted his attention to Draco's nipples. He closed his lips around one and sucked hard, then retreated and blew on it. Catching the darkened and hardened nub with his teeth, he pulled, stretching the contracting skin and smiling around it when Draco arched into the caress.

Harry lay down on top of him, grinding himself hard against Draco's crotch, his laboured breathing and muffled moans answered by Draco's low orders to suck harder or use his teeth or kiss him here or there.

"Draco, I—" Harry rubbed his prick along the bulge in Draco's trousers, pressing harder, going faster. The tip of his cock worked its way up and peeked out of the waistband of his low-cut jeans. Draco slid a hand between their bodies, into the heat between their stomachs and groins, and opened the first button of Harry's jeans, while he stole the sigh from his lips. His hand came up, he broke the kiss. Looking into Harry's eyes, he licked and sucked the fingers which had touched Harry down there.

"Let me hear you."

His voice, that sultry voice – it ran through Harry's body like a fuse, leaving a sizzling trace behind, and Harry couldn't hold back anymore. He retreated from the kiss, allowing Draco to look at him, to listen, when the built-up tension in his crotch would ignite.

Looking into Draco's eyes he exhaled with a moan as if in pain in that last split-second before his brain exploded. He ground down into Draco in the rhythm of his pumping dick, and the heat shot out of him. Draco held him and listened, and kissed him when it was over.

Panting and exhausted, Harry lay in Draco's arms, their eyes still locked. He realised he was still digging his fingers into Draco's hips with bruising strength and quickly loosened his grip. For a short while he was content to just be there, until Draco's eyes went big and bright. Harry searched them for a hint of what was going on. "What—is something wrong?"

Draco shook his head. "No, it's just—" He blinked and swallowed. "I heard you, you didn't hold back anything, you gave me all of you, and I—" He looked into Harry's eyes again. "I can't. I can't let myself go like this."

Fuck. Harry averted his eyes and tried to sit up. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm such an insensitive arse sometimes, I should've known this was too early. Merlin, I'm such an idiot!"

Draco's arms locked around him. "No, you did nothing wrong. I wanted it too, really, believe me, will you? It's just…" Draco took a shaky breath. "Harry, what if they get to me when I'm so out of control? You looked so vulnerable, so open, I could have done anything to you in that one moment. You were completely defenseless!" His eyes were pleading. "Do you understand? I can't let that happen. I'm afraid!" Draco hid his face in his hands, releasing Harry from his grip. "Now who's the idiot here?"

"I'm sorry," Harry said, again. "I shouldn't have thrown myself at you so suddenly. Of course you are afraid of losing control, when control is the only thing able to stop that bloody kaleidoscope in your head." Harry clenched his fists.

"I swear, if it wasn't a crime, I would kill your father for what he did to you, and if Voldemort wasn't already dead, I'd kill him again for the same reason." He wrapped his arms around Draco and pressed his nose into the crook of his shoulder and neck, searching comfort in the lemony scent and the warmth of Draco's skin.


31 December 2000 .o°o. Harry's Flat

Harry stood at the end of his sofa, and looked down at Draco. In one hand he held his wand, in the other the vial with the stag Patronus. "Are you really sure you want me to do this? Are you warm and comfortable? No need for a last trip to the loo before we start?"

"Yes, and yes again. I want you to do it, I'm warm and comfortable and as relaxed as I can be. Though, of course, I would be far more relaxed if you allowed me a Firewhiskey, or two." Or a quill and ink. Draco wiped his sweaty palms along his thighs, and looked up into Harry's face. "What? Oh, right. No, no need for the loo right now. Thanks."

Harry bent down and kissed the tip of Draco's nose. "Yeah, I'm nervous, too. Let's start. It won't take long."

He picked the vial up and opened it. Waited and counted to ten. It was still quite early in the morning, and the typical noises of the Diagon Alley shop owners opening their businesses wafted up to them. Ten! The sheer liquid turned silverish.

Draco's breathing was even, though a bit too much so to be natural.

Harry's heartbeat pulsed in his ears as he drew the required loops and lines into the air. "Extracto Patronus Libero."

A thin string of silver mist rose from the vial, and disappeared into the tip of his wand. When the flow stopped, Harry turned and pressed the tip to Draco's left temple. "Look into my eyes. Breathe. Don't fight it."

Draco's eyes locked with his, wide open, unblinking.

"Transfundo Patronum Libero."

A silver jet shot from his wand and into Draco's head. Draco arched his back, choking. His hips rose from the sofa, his irises lit up moonlight-bright. His hands twitched up to Harry, then his lids slid shut and he sank back into the pillows. He lay stock-still. Only his infrequent gasping for air, and his eyeballs, darting left and right in an very fast though erratic rhythm, betrayed he wasn't dead.

Draco gasped for air; he was wet and cold, his clothes were soaked and heavy and threatened to pull him down. Already his arms went numb, moving his legs became harder, and still the cold, grey, raging torrent tossed and flipped him around without mercy. A strange, greyish light lay over the scenery, and dark, fathomless shadows crowded the banks. Another curve, and the river spit him out.

While he lay on the wet black sand of the bank, heavy fog rose from the stream. Draco looked around. The mysterious light revealed a huge cavern, the edges rough and dark. The shadows rushed by, howling and screaming, with crimson eyes and evil claws, reeking of rot and blood and death. Draco curled up, pressed his eyes shut and his hands to his ears. They can't see me, they can't see me.

Cool mist caressed the back of his hand. Brightness penetrated the pulsing redness of his eyelids. Peace filled his heart. He opened his eyes.

A giant silver stag stood beside him, pawing the ground and eyeing the approaching cloud of evil.

You.

The stag pranced, throwing back its head.

Harry sent you. To help me.

The stag rose to his hind legs.

Alright. Let's fight!

His skin tingled, his limbs sizzled. He lifted a hand to his eyes. It was slightly sheer, shimmering bright and silvery. I'm a ghost. Nothing can hurt me. Nothing can kill me.

He got up, and the stag dashed forward, galloping towards the howling madness ahead. Draco jumped to his feet. He was light, and yet he was strong. His feet didn't touch the ground, yet he was fast. His muscles bulged, his blood ran fast through his veins. He was a ghost, and yet he'd never been more alive.

The bright shine of the stag had reached the first row of darkness. Red eyes grew wide, and shrieks of horror echoed through the cave. Lightning rained down on the stag, green, red, again and again.

Crucio!

Avada Kedavra!

The curses didn't stop the stag. It even gained speed, swinging its head with the heavy antlers from left to right and back. The shadows vanished at the lightest touch. Only a few escaped by retreating to the edges of the hollow. Draco went after them, running faster than he had ever been able to.

Crucio!

Avada Kedavra!

No curse would slow him down. He was a ghost, he was his own Patronus, pure light and energy, so bright that he didn't cast a shadow. Maybe that was why they were such easy prey. He ran after them, caught them in a deathly embrace, shadow after shadow. Though his pulse was racing and the rush of his blood was loud in his ears, their claws and teeth weren't able to hurt him. He was fog, made of air and water, and yet his touch was enough to shatter their existence.

Panting, Draco opened his empty arms. This one had been the last. He looked around for the stag. He was trudging towards him. All darkness was gone.

Draco reached out for the Patronus. A touch of mist, a silver blur, and the stag disappeared.

Thank you.


01 January 2001 .o°o. Draco's Room

Draco shivered, when he entered his room in the back of Black Coffee. He walked straight to the fireplace and arranged some logs and tinder into a pile. With a satisfied nod he curled up in his armchair, wrapping himself up in the warm folds of his cloak.

He fumbled for his wand. Its smooth wood was warm from his body heat, and Harry had polished it, so it shone even in the dim light of the room. Twirling it slowly, he closed his eyes, searching for the slight humming of the connection between his magic and the core of his wand.

Come on. I know you're there. You must be there!

Nothing. He heard nothing. The sounds of his body grew louder. The constant, soothing rhythm of his heartbeat. The low rise and fall of his breathing. But underneath of all that – still nothing.

His wand warmed up to his hand. Got warmer and warmer. Draco himself started sweating. Heat pooled in his stomach, his forehead was wet as if from a fever, and still he was getting hotter and hotter. His blood rushed through his body, his prick hardened. Draco stretched his legs to the fireplace to make room for it. It filled further, with every heartbeat. His wand glowed, almost burning his hand.

Tension rose. His heart beat faster and faster, his breath was rough and raw in his throat. Writhing in the armchair, he aimed his wand at the fireplace. Something inside him burst and his body twitched in shock. His skin burned, red circles pulsed across the blackness of his eyelids.

Incendio!

White-hot energy rushed through his veins, and he arched in almost-pain. Heat shot out of him in hot wet spurts, while more heat shot through his arm. His wand, scorching hot, twitched in his hand until a shower of sparks burst from the tip. It took forever, and yet it was over too soon.

He slumped in the armchair, and a light humming filled his ears.

The fire crackled in the grate.

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