FIC: come with me into the light (PG-13)

[mpreg_fest_mod]

Title: come with me into the light
Author: tryslora
Prompt: #36 from dragon2stars. Draco comes back to 8th year suffering extreme depression. He does nothing to stop the harassment by other students he feels it's deserved. When he is raped he doesn't say a thing since he was slipped something or had a spell placed and couldn't remember who did it why bother the teachers would blame him anyway. Later the truth will have to come out due to the pregnancy and when it does someone special will be there to help him learn the importance of Draco Malfoy.
Word Count: ~21k
Rating: PG-13
Contains (Highlight to view): *Non-graphic descriptions of rape. Depression. Grief/angst.*
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Epilogue compliant?: Nope (eighth year story).
Who is pregnant?: Draco
Notes: dragon2stars, I had to have this prompt as soon as I saw it. There were times when it wasn't an easy story to write, but I am so glad that I was able to write this piece, and I hope it is what you were hoping for. Many thanks to M for all her help keeping me on track while I wrote, and making sure that I didn't veer away from the story I meant to tell.
Summary: Everything has changed by the time Harry returns to Hogwarts for his second attempt at his final year. He no longer wears glasses, he mourns dead friends from the war, and Draco Malfoy walks the halls as if he is a ghost as well. When Pansy asks Harry to help snap Malfoy out of his silence, what else is he supposed to say? Malfoy needs to be saved, and that's just what Harry does.



“I need your help, Potter.” Pansy sinks into the seat next to him at the table, and he blinks rapidly, not expecting to see her there.

He reaches for his glasses in a reflexive motion to push them up his nose, poking his cheek when they aren’t there. The new Muggle surgery for correcting his vision has left him feeling awkward and confused without the glasses on his face. Now that they aren’t in his way, Harry realizes just how many mannerisms he used to have that involved them. Four months after the surgery and he’s still poking himself.

“Are you going to respond, Potter, or will you simply sit there staring at me as if I’m wearing one of Luna’s ridiculous outfits?” Pansy asks sharply. “Honestly. How someone like you could save the world is beyond me.”

“If you don’t have faith in me, why would you need my help?” Harry retorts, finally finding his voice. Pansy smiles thinly at his words, and he realizes that she’s goading him, aiming for a reaction. He flushes slightly, picks up his quill to have something to do with his hands. “Fine. Talk,” he tells her

“Luna trusts you.” Pansy sighs, as if admitting this pains her. “Therefore, here I am. Draco refuses to speak to me.”

That’s not what Harry expects her to say, and his gaze narrows, frowning at her, but her expression doesn’t change. “You want me to… make Draco speak to you?”

“I’d like to see him display some sign of life other than barely eating, showering, and attending classes like a character in a Muggle zombie film. Honestly, I expect him to mutter brains at any moment.” She huffs a small, dark laugh. “You’ve seen the films Justin brought with him this year, yes?”

“Yes.” Harry isn’t entirely certain he’s following the conversation, which isn’t unusual where Pansy Parkinson is concerned, but this particular flow of words seems even more nonsensical than usual. He’d wonder if Luna has influenced her, but he usually understands Luna, even if she invokes names of creatures that he’s never heard of. Luna makes sense. He suspects this may make sense as well, if he takes time to tease out the meaning.

“I just… I’m not sure what you want me to do,” he admits.

Pansy smiles, sudden and sharp and bright, and she pats his arm. “I want you to do what you’ve always done best, Potter. Piss Draco off. Make him see red, make him absolutely furious. Make him want to hex your balls off. Just do something—anything—that makes him seem alive. I have known him since birth, and even I can’t reach him now.”

“What makes you think I’m going to have any better luck?” Harry can’t help it; his gaze drifts away from Pansy, unerringly finding the place where Draco sits, surrounded by other eighth year students, but somehow managing to remain alone in the small sea of humanity. Harry frowns at the way Draco stares at his plate, eating with an almost mechanical motion. It reminds him of their sixth year at Hogwarts, although this might actually be worse.

“Because.” Pansy’s voice drops to a whisper as she puts her hand on his forearm and leans in close. “He has always been as obsessed with you as you are with him. If anyone can make him react now, it’s you. And out of everyone in this school, I suspect you actually care. You’re our saviour, Potter. So save him.”

She squeezes his arm hard enough that he expects to see fingerprints when she retreats and leaves him to his meal. She makes her way to where Luna sits with at the Ravenclaw table and inserts herself between Luna and a fourth year girl, her expression gentling as soon as Luna reaches out to her.

It’s not a relationship Harry ever expected to see, but with the threat of war gone, everyone seems to be ignoring society and giving in to what they truly want. And as long as Luna’s happy, Harry is happy for her.

His gaze slowly drifts back to Draco, who has now put his fork down and pushed away the plate, his food half finished. It isn’t that Harry hasn’t noticed Draco this year—he has. They’ve been back for a month and a half now to make this attempt at a final year in Hogwarts and Harry has definitely noticed that Draco doesn’t seem to be entirely himself. But no one really is. The war affected everyone deeply, and Harry no longer knows exactly where the lines are drawn.

They all have ghosts haunting them, some more literally than others.

“Harry, are you watching Malfoy again?” Ron slides into the seat next to him, offering a roll before stealing the chicken leg from Harry’s plate. “He’s not up to something. He’s barely here.”

It’s true. Malfoy seems more like he is a ghost rather than being haunted. As Harry watches, Malfoy flinches, pulling in on himself, and he stands and walks out. Zacharias Smith takes the seat left empty, grinning at the others there amidst laughter, and Harry wishes he could hear what they’ve said. He’s sure it’s something about Malfoy.

Harry is aware of the talk around Hogwarts. He knows how people have been treating Malfoy, but the students are careful to do it where no professors are nearby, no ghosts to lie in witness and no one who might come to his rescue. Not that anyone at the school is willing to come to his rescue; he’s Malfoy after all, and responsible for the attack on Hogwarts in their sixth year.

On the other hand, Pansy tried to give Harry up to Voldemort, and he’s forgiven her.

“I think something’s wrong,” Harry mutters, picking at a piece of bread. “I think something’s wrong with Malfoy.”

“What was that?” Hermione slides into a seat on the opposite side, sighing heavily. “Harry, are you obsessing over Malfoy again?”

“When isn’t he?”

“There was a brief time while we were out looking for the Horcruxes,” Hermione points out in response to Ron’s questions. Harry ignores them as they go off on their own tangent; they may be talking about him, but he doesn’t care.

He puts the bread down on his plate, pushes it away. “I’m going to figure it out,” he says as he stands.

“Mate, don’t you think you ought to leave him alone this year?” Ron asks. “He doesn’t look like he wants to be making friends.”

That fits with what Pansy said, that he’s pulling away from everyone. And Harry doesn’t think anyone deserves the treatment Malfoy’s been getting. Even Malfoy doesn’t deserve to be treated like that. “Something’s wrong,” he says quietly. “And I’m going to figure out what.”

#

Harry can’t find Malfoy anywhere in the hallways; it’s as if he’s disappeared while everyone else is eating breakfast. He spots him in a back hallway on the way to Potions, pressed up against the wall, his head up and chin tilted high as he stares at a point on the opposite wall. Three sixth year Ravenclaws and a seventh year Hufflepuff crowd in close to him, and Harry spots two wands out and a hint of smoke from Malfoy’s robes.

He calls out, and they back away from Malfoy quickly, the eldest grinning lazily when Harry approaches.

“Hullo, Harry.” The boy’s gaze rakes over him. “Did you want something?”

Harry sees Malfoy in the background, smoothing his robes and whispering a charm against fire until the smoke disappears. “Yes. Leave off with harassing people in the hallway.”

One of the Ravenclaws laughs, a bright sharp sound that echoes off the stone. “Are you telling us that we ought to respect a Death Eater? You weren’t here, Harry. You weren’t tortured by people like him. Some of them know better; they didn’t even try to come back. And Malfoy doesn’t deserve to be here either. We’re just telling him what he already knows. He should go home. He should go join his father in Azkaban.”

“He should rot in hell,” one of the others chimes in.

Harry bites his lip, almost bites his tongue against the words that want to come out. He inhales once, exhales slowly. “This is a warning.” He keeps his voice low. “If I see you bullying Malfoy again, it will be reported to the Headmistress and you will regret it.”

The seventh year—Samuelson, Harry thinks—smirks. “Don’t worry,” he says. “You won’t see us doing it ever again.”

Harry can read between the lines of those words, knows exactly what he really means. He draws himself up to his full height—still three inches shorter than Samuelson—and tries to channel dark lord destroyer in his attitude. “No,” he says quietly. “I won’t. And I won’t hear of it, either.”

He walks away, trying to give that snap to his robes that the most powerful people seem to have, but they only tangle momentarily around his feet before giving way. He hurries to Potions and slides into the last remaining seat in the room, at the bench next to Malfoy.

“I don’t need your help,” Malfoy mutters. “And I don’t need a partner. Go work with someone else.”

“Apparently Luna decided to go to her own class today, so Pansy’s working with Parvati, which means everyone’s moved around,” Harry says easily, as if he wouldn’t have ended up here anyway. “You’re stuck with me.”

“I could complain.”

Harry gives him a look; this is the most he’s heard Malfoy speak all year. “You won’t,” he says confidently, and Malfoy seems to deflate, sinking in on himself, body curling around a too-thin center while he stares at the desk.

Malfoy’s arms cross, protecting his chest. “No, I won’t,” he whispers. “I won’t say a word.”

It twists in Harry’s gut to see him like this, as if Harry were no better than the bullies from the hall. “I only meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Malfoy hisses. “I’m a Death Eater. I deserve whatever I get, and if today that means I’m stuck with Harry-sodding-Potter, the Saviour himself, as my partner, then I will deal with it. Let’s get this over with and you can harass someone else as soon as class is done.”

“There will be a writeup,” Harry points out. He’s completely at sea in the conversation, as if they are arguing just like they always have, only the script’s changed and Harry can’t keep up. “We’ll have to work together to get that done.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Malfoy presses his lips together in a dark grimace. “That’s what you like, isn’t it? You won’t have to do a thing, just get back to saving people. Other people. The ones who…” The words drops into the distance, and Malfoy stops speaking entirely, staring at his own hands folded on his desk as soon as Slughorn begins to speak.

Harry wonders how that sentence was supposed to end. Saving people who need it? Saving people who deserve it? He can’t say a word, simply picks up his quill and starts making notes, taking care to compare it to the things he’d written down before class about today’s potion. He trusts Malfoy as a partner—Malfoy is brilliant at Potions—but he needs to learn this himself if he’s going to be an Auror when Hogwarts is done.

When the class finally ends, their potion is a perfect shade of emerald green and Slughorn compliments Harry on a job well done. Not a word is said to Malfoy, who manages to slip from the room and disappear before Harry can catch him, along with all of their notes from the brewing of the potion.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that today, my dear boy.” Slughorn pats Harry on the shoulder. “I’m sure Miss Lovegood will be invading class again soon, and if she doesn’t, please feel free to work alone. Your skill with a brew is remarkable, and I’m quite certain you can handle the load on your own.”

“I didn’t mind working with Malfoy,” Harry protests quietly, but it’s as if Slughorn didn’t hear, the professor going on, pointing out minor changes to the brewing procedure if done without a partner.

Even the professors act as if Malfoy is invisible. No wonder the prat’s miserable.

#

As soon as Harry starts trying to watch Malfoy more, he realizes that half the time, Malfoy’s not around. It’s as if he disappears sometimes between classes. Once he starts taking mental notes, he sees that Malfoy misses lunch half the time, misses dinner almost every time, and makes it to breakfast last and leaves first every morning. He sits with the eighth year students, but he never speaks to any of them. In fact, he doesn’t think he’s seen Malfoy speak to anyone outside of that day in Potions when he spoke to Harry.

He corners Dean one morning as he comes in to breakfast with Ernie, and nudges him aside. “Dean, does Malfoy actually sleep in your room?” Only ten boys returned for this eighth year at Hogwarts, and they’ve been split into two dormitory rooms. Dean shares with Malfoy, Nott, Ernie MacMillan, and Zacharias Smith. Out of them all, Harry is only vaguely friendly with Ernie, but he’s been mates with Dean for a long time and trusts that he won’t take the piss.

He’s wrong.

Dean grins. “Seamus told me you’ve gotten back into your old habits of watching Malfoy. When are you going to admit that you fancy the bloke?”

Harry blinks; that’s not the reaction he was expecting. “Fancy Malfoy?”

“You’re staring at him all the bloody time,” Dean points out. “I know you don’t trust him, but you’ve got to admit that he has a bloody fine arse to be staring at.”

“You’re starting to sound like Seamus.” It’s absolutely nonsensical as responses go, but Harry can’t find words for an actual response. Yes, Malfoy has a nice arse. It’s not like Harry can ignore it. And it’s not like Harry spends his time actually thinking about it, unlike Dean, who seems to have spend quite a bit of time on the topic. “Maybe you’re the one ought to be fancying Malfoy.”

Dean shudders. “I spent time in his basement, if you’ll remember, so no thank you. Besides, Seamus and I don’t plan on sharing; we’re more than enough for each other.”

That explains a lot, including how Seamus made it through the grieving process after Lavender’s death. Harry tries to route the conversation back around to the question he originally asked. “But does he sleep in your room?” he asks, and when Dean raises both eyebrows, Harry realizes what he’s said. “Not Seamus, Draco. He doesn’t make it to most meals, and when he’s not in class, it’s like he disappears. I just want to know if he actually spends time in your room.”

Dean claps him on the shoulder, the hit a bit harder than Harry would like and he stumbles a step from it. “Yes, Harry, Draco tucks his pert little arse into bed, puts up three silencing charms, and sleeps until all of us are already out of the room. And no, he doesn’t say a word. It’s like living with a ghost.”

“Ghost…” Harry’s voice trails off, and he knows what he has to do. “Thanks, Dean, that’s exactly what I needed to know.”

“Oi, Harry.” Dean calls out as Harry’s about to walk away, and he spreads his hands as he asks, “Why do you care if the wanker’s sleeping? He tried to kill us all. He tried to kill you and Dumbledore, and he had the fucking Dark Lord living in his house. He doesn’t belong here now, pretending to be normal. Fine arse or not, he’s still a Death Eater.”

Harry takes a step back, as if he were pulling himself free of Dean’s grip. “He’s also still human,” he says quietly. “And he was absolved during the trials, if you paid attention. He’s free, Dean, and he deserves to live just like the rest of us.” He doesn’t want to hear what Dean says because he doesn’t want to know just how bad it is. He doesn’t want to hear anyone he likes being a bully.

Besides, he has an idea, and he still needs to find Malfoy.

#

Ever since returning to Hogwarts for his second chance at his final year, Harry has avoided certain areas of the castle. Despite the massive amount of reparative work done over the summer, some parts still clearly show the destruction wrought during the final battle, and students are barred from entry.

Harry is positive that this is where Malfoy has gone.

He makes his way down a hallway cautiously, fingers reaching for the wall but not quite touching the scarred stones, traces of old curses etched into their surface. He can almost feel it, the malevolent magic that lingers, and he can’t imagine spending time here.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

He hears the voice—not Malfoy, but something vaguely familiar—but doesn’t see a face to go with it. Harry looks up, trying to find it, turns around. “I’m looking for someone,” he says.

“I know.” A figure steps out of the wall, pale and ghostly as it shimmers there in the hall. Harry blinks, and the boy smiles. Slightly shorter than Harry, with a round face and a bright smile that Harry remembers clearly. “It’s good to see you again,” Colin says. “But you really don’t belong here. This is where the dead go.”

“The… dead?” Harry blinks rapidly, because he hadn’t really thought of it, even though he knew it was possible. When he’d set out to find ghosts, he’d been looking for Peeves or Nick or someone that he was comfortable with who might know if Malfoy had been around. He wasn’t expecting to find his dead friends. “I’m… I’m looking for someone who’s alive.”

“Well, you’ve found us instead.” Colin brings up the camera that hangs around his neck and holds it still for a moment before a bright flash illuminates the room. Harry blinks the stars away and sees Colin looking closely at the camera. “I still don’t know how to make this work like it used to,” Colin mutters.

It’s only a small stretch from seeing Colin to think who else might be here. Who else could be waiting to be noticed, or waiting to cause trouble. Harry’s breath catches in his throat, and he puts a hand against his chest, trying to get it under control. “How many ghosts?”

“A lot of people died in the final battle,” Colin says. “Not all of them went on. This is a safe place for ghosts, Harry.” He tilts his head, expression apologetic. “This place isn’t for you, Harry. You need to leave.”

He’s about to say I died too, but Colin doesn’t give him the chance. Between one blink and the next, the hall is empty, and there’s a wall in front of Harry. The only way for him to go is back.

#

Luna starts attending their Potions class again, even though she isn’t actually taking it, and Harry finds himself partnered with Padma Patil for several classes in a row until an illness shakes up the partnerships once more. He quietly claims the seat at Malfoy’s desk while everyone else tries to sort themselves. Malfoy doesn’t greet him, and Harry responds by opening his book on the table between them, pointing to the correct page.

“I work alone,” Malfoy finally says quietly, as Harry drops a stack of ingredients on their table and starts to sort through them.

“I don’t, and we’ve an even number of students today, so you’re stuck with me.” He glances over at Malfoy. “Are you sleeping?” There are dark rims around his eyes, like bruises against the pale skin, and Malfoy somehow seems pointier than ever. “You know, it’s normal to have nightmares—”

“I don’t want to talk about my dreams, Potter,” Malfoy interrupts, sneering.

“I don’t like talking about my nightmares either,” Harry tells him. He pushes a pile of long stems over to Malfoy with the instructions to chop them neatly while Harry settles in to dice a thick root into careful pieces half the size of his pinky nail. “The ones where I’m dying are the worst. Sometimes I don’t know if I’ll come back, or if I should come back. I wonder why bother.”

“Lovely.” Malfoy chops with quick sharp strokes, the knife thunking against the bench. “As wonderful as it is to hear you talk about yourself, Potter, do stop before my ears begin to bleed from excitement.”

“Harry, if you’d rather work alone, I can give you amended instructions for this particular potion.” Slughorn hovers over them, casting a dark shadow on the bench.

Harry refuses to look up and meet his eyes. “No thank you, Professor, although you probably ought to make amended instructions available for solo brewing all the time, in case any student needs them.” There’s an answering kick under the table, and Harry inwardly cheers at having affected Malfoy enough to inspire mild violence.

“Very well. I shall expect your usual stellar performance on this assignment, despite your difficulties.” Slughorn taps the table, gestures at the cauldron. “You are already behind. I suggest you work quickly, if you have any hope of finishing the assignment on time.”

“He hates you,” Harry says quietly, and Malfoy merely shrugs one shoulder in response. “Is there any particular reason?”

“His cousin Imelda married Riphorn Vance, who was a Death Eater. I saw him strung up and disemboweled for displeasing the Dark Lord,” Malfoy says, deadpan. “His guts spilled across the dining room table, like undercooked meat.”

Harry swallows hard. “You’re joking.”

One eyebrow lifts. “Hardly. I was a Death Eater, Potter. It’s not about picking daisies and dancing on the moor. We sought death, and we actively gave death. Don’t attempt to put a rosy colour over the time I spent during the war; I was evil. I am evil.”

Malfoy seems to sink in on himself on those words, gaze dropping to the workbench, knife sliding off the stalks and into his thumb, biting deep. He stares at the blood welling up, dripping onto the bench, even when Harry reaches over to touch his hand. “You need to go the infirmary,” Harry says quietly. “That’s a deep cut.”

“Do I? Very well.” Malfoy pushes his chair back and stands. Blood drips from his thumb, leaving a trail across the floor as he moves slowly out, not bothering to pause to talk to Slughorn.

It’s like a switch has been turned off, as if for just a short time, Malfoy was Malfoy, then the lights went out and he turned back into whatever sort of ghost he’s been since the year began.

For one brief moment, Harry thinks about chasing after him, making sure that he does go to the infirmary, that he takes care of himself. Then Hermione slides into the seat next to him and starts quietly chopping ingredients, and the moment is gone; Harry can’t leave now.

#

Days slide into weeks, and Malfoy becomes quieter. He misses dinner every night and lunch most days, and Harry loses track of how many days he misses breakfast. He sees him in class, quiet as a shadow, but even Harry poking at him in Potions isn’t enough to make Malfoy speak. He simply goes through the motions, producing good work but nothing more, leaving as soon as class is dismissed.

Harry tries to track him into the ruined areas of the building, but finds the way blocked as if the dead have retreated, sealed themselves off from the living.

It niggles at him, this worry about Draco Malfoy. The more Malfoy seems like the walking dead, the more Harry needs to know why.

It comes to a head when Ernie MacMillan drops into the seat next to him at breakfast, out of breath and wheezing slightly, his blond hair still wet from the shower and his face red with exertion. Harry stares at him, not at all sure what to say.

“He won’t wake up.” Ernie leans in close, whispers loud enough for everyone around them to hear. “I broke through the privacy ward on his curtains and got them open, then I canceled the silence charms. But he won’t wake up.”

“Who?” Harry’s reeling, still barely awake, his morning slice of bread and marmalade only half eaten.

“Malfoy.” Ernie’s voice drops lower, and his gaze skirts around as if he expects retribution for simply speaking the name. “He’s been sleeping later and later every morning; I figured he was avoiding breakfast ever since Nott and Smith slipped him a Potion that left him shitting for hours. But this is worse. He won’t wake up, Harry. I tried everything, and he won’t wake up.”

Harry’s heart is pounding by the time Ernie finishes speaking, and he wonders if it’s loud enough for everyone else to hear. But no one else at the table seems to notice them. No one looks over, no one tilts their head as if they are listening. It’s only Harry and Ernie, and Harry is just starting to figure out that Ernie is actually worried about Draco Malfoy.

He wrestles himself under control, his voice shaky as he asks, “Do you think someone did something?”

“He’s still breathing,” Ernie whispers. “And I don’t think Nott or Smith would kill him, but they hate him and they bully him as much as anyone else here does. Sometimes more, since they’re in a room together.”

“I’ll go check on him.” Harry pushes back so quickly that it startles the others. Hermione stands as he does, her forehead furrowed in a frown.

“Are we late?” she asks, and Harry quickly shakes his head.

“No, I just… I forgot something. I need to check on something. Back at the room. Before class.” It’s not entirely a lie, and Harry quickly rushes out while Hermione is saying something to Ron. He can feel eyes following him, knows that everyone wonders what he’s doing. He doesn’t care, just moves with a quick walk back to the small wing built for the eighth year students. After offering the password, he takes the stairs to the boys’ side of the dorm and passes the door to his own room.

The door to Malfoy’s room is open just a little, probably left that way by Ernie rushing out. Harry slips in and sees Malfoy as a slim figure spread across the bed, his chest moving with shallow breaths. Harry leans over, nudges his shoulder, then shakes him harder. “Malfoy.” With no response, Harry draws in a deeper breath, and yells, “Malfoy!”

Nothing.

After Harry tries three times to rouse him with magic, Malfoy blinks into the light, expression blank. “Potter?”

“Yes, and we’re getting you to the infirmary.” Harry sits on the bed, wedges an arm under Malfoy’s slim shoulders, lifting him carefully. “Bloody hell, have you been eating?”

“Sometimes. There isn’t really much point.” Malfoy shrugs. “I already went to the infirmary when you told me to. I don’t need to go.”

“That was weeks ago.”

“It was?” Malfoy turns his hand palm up, looks at the healed skin as if he hasn’t seen it before. “It’s not like it matters, anyway. Whether I go or not,” he adds, as if Harry couldn’t follow his words.

“It matters,” Harry says firmly. “You’re not going to die, Malfoy.”

“I’m not dying,” Malfoy scoffs. “I’m just tired. You could go away and let me sleep until I’m not tired anymore.”

“You’ve already slept all night and into the morning.” Harry tries to keep his voice even while he wrestles Malfoy and himself to standing. Malfoy leans heavily on him, and Harry gets the impression that he isn’t entirely awake. He manages to find a way to hold him upright, but one stumbling step has them both almost toppling to the floor. “Bloody hell, you might be thin, but you’re still hard to carry,” Harry mutters.

“Just leave me here, Potter.” Malfoy flicks his fingers at the door. “Go. I’ll be fine.” He wavers, slumping into Harry, a dead weight and unconscious.

The only option is to carry him, so Harry does, awkwardly casting a spell to help him float just enough as he lifts Malfoy bridal style. It isn’t easy to navigate through halls that are now filled with students, all watching them pass. He hears the jeering calls, the comments about Malfoy that he can’t defend, not now.

“Just let them say it,” Malfoy whispers, barely awake. “You know I deserve it.”

Harry’s heart grows cold at the words. “No, you don’t, and don’t you dare die in my arms, Malfoy,” he mutters, throwing his shoulder into the door to the infirmary to push it open as he calls out for Madame Pomfrey.

She directs him to a bed, snapping out questions that Harry answers to the best of his ability while Malfoy curls on his side in a fetal position, refusing to say a word.

“I’m going to need to examine him now,” Pomfrey tells him. “If you want to wait—”

“I want him to go.” Malfoy’s tone is flat, hard. “Get out, Potter. I don’t need or want you here.”

“You’re ill, Malfoy,” Harry tells him. “If I hadn’t brought you in, you could’ve died there in your bed. You’re not taking care of yourself and no, you don’t deserve the things they’re saying. I’m staying to make sure that you get the help you need.”

“You can’t force me to do anything.” The words fall between them, although Malfoy’s glare is underwhelming.

“I can.” Pomfrey puts one hand on Malfoy’s chest, points the other at the door. “Mr. Malfoy, you will be staying here until we determine why you are undernourished and exhausted. And Mr. Potter, while I am thankful to you for escorting him here, it seems that your presence is no longer needed. I promise that Mr. Malfoy will live to annoy you another day, and I am sure you will see him again before long.”

Harry hesitates, unwilling to leave without better assurance.

“Go,” she repeats, her voice slightly gentler. “You have classes, Mr. Potter, and instructors who expect you to attend. I will be certain to send you a missive at lunch to make you aware of Mr. Malfoy’s status.”

He manages to make it the few steps to the door, but he hesitates again, looking back. “Don’t let anyone else in,” he says quietly. “Most of the students, even some of the staff—they’re bullying him. He needs to rest without worrying about that.”

Madame Pomfrey’s smile is thin-lipped. “I am not so old that I am unaware of the alliances of students against those they believe they can destroy. I assure you, Mr. Malfoy will be quite safe under my care. Now go, Mr. Potter. I do not want to see you in here again unless Mr. Malfoy specifically requests it. As you said, he should rest without the worry of being bothered by unwanted guests.”

Harry leaves, only because he has no other choice.

#

Harry sleepwalks through his day, his mind lingering on the way Malfoy looked when he wouldn’t wake up, the dead tone in his voice, and the things other students said. He worries at it all, wonders if it’s simply malnutrition or if there’s something worse, and if there is something worse, who did it to him. Or if Malfoy did it to himself.

He takes an empty bench for Potions after lunch, and Pansy slides into the seat next to him, Luna settling on her lap. “Is there any news?” Pansy asks quietly. “It’s been hours since you carried Draco to see Pomfrey. I heard he was completely unconscious.”

“Not completely, not the whole time.” Harry picks at the frayed edge of his textbook. “He was very clear when he told me to get out after we got there.”

“I told you that Draco would talk to Harry,” Luna says with a gentle smile, her hand against Pansy’s cheek. “They’ve always had this pull towards each other, haven’t they?”

“He hates me,” Harry says.

“I wouldn’t be so certain.” Luna kisses Pansy’s cheek and slips from her lap, fingers squeezing just above her knee. “I’ll leave you to partner Harry today. Don’t forget that I’m feeding the Balumet with Hagrid today, so I shall likely be late for dinner. Meet me for Astronomy study later. I’m fairly certain the Whizzles have left the tower by now so we can study undisturbed.”

“What’s a Balumet?” Harry figures that one must be visible to others, since she’s feeding it with Hagrid. He suspects no one else has seen a Whizzle, but he knows from experience that unseen doesn’t mean not real.

Pansy shrugs one shoulder, her gaze lingering on Luna as she leaves the room. “I don’t know and I don’t care. As long as it makes her happy and doesn’t harm her, it makes me happy as well. Now tell me what is wrong with Draco?”

“I honestly have no idea.” Harry tries to find the page in the book as Slughorn starts the class, handing it over to Pansy when she makes an impatient noise. “He’s pale and withdrawn. Too thin. Sleeping too much; Ernie MacMillan couldn’t wake him for class today. And he doesn’t care.”

Pansy huffs a sigh. “Do you know what he said to me on the train when we came here? I asked if he was excited to try again, to erase the absolute travesty that our last year here was. And he looked at me and said I did those things, and nothing can erase it. Nothing. Whatever happens this year, I deserve it. All of it. And then he pointed at the door of the compartment and ordered me out. I heard it lock behind me, and he hasn’t said a word to me since. He hasn’t said a word to anyone.”

“He’s spoken to me.” Harry doesn’t know what to do with that piece of information, the way it rolls around in his mind along with his worry, along with the feel of Draco Malfoy limp in his arms, along with the memory of a boy crying in the bathroom, a boy he attacked, a boy who refused to give him up to Voldemort, and a boy whose life he saved. It’s all tangled up together.

“Exactly.” Pansy taps the table, nudges the book. “Go get the things we need, I’ll start blocking out the directions.”

“I’ve got everything already.” Luna drops a pile of ingredients on the table, fingers moving deftly as she sorts them into piles. “Headmistress McGonagall is waiting in the hall for you, Harry. I’ll stay with Pansy after all, since you can’t.”

Harry’s mouth goes dry. “Did she say what she wants?”

Luna blinks and she pushes her glasses up her nose, the red glass tinting her skin behind it a faint rose. Harry tries to echo the motion, pushing his finger into his face when the glasses aren’t there.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Luna says. “Perhaps you ought to ask her, Harry. She is waiting for you.”

“Harry!” Slughorn calls out, and Harry reaches for his textbook and his things.

“Coming, sir.”

McGonagall doesn’t say a word, her lips pursed thinly when she regards Harry as he exits the room. She simply starts walking down the hall, and Harry has to hurry to keep up with her.

“This is probably going to sound disrespectful—”

“Then perhaps you ought to think before saying it, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall says, her tone clipped. “When I informed your class that they were adults even while within the halls of Hogwarts, I certainly expected a more restrained behaviour than it seems you have had.”

“I’m sorry?” Harry has no idea what she’s talking about, although they seem to be heading for the infirmary, so he has to assume it has something to do with Malfoy. “I didn’t hurt him, Minerva.” At her sharp look, he swallows hard and falls back on formality. “Headmistress, I was trying to save him by bringing him to Madame Pomfrey. He’s been bullied badly.”

Her expression gentles slightly. “I’m aware, Mr. Potter. However, I have been unable to catch the perpetrators in the act and have had to rely upon witness accounts. Mr. Malfoy refuses to discuss the issue, apparently under the impression that he deserves such activities, no matter how harsh they might become. However, of all people in this school and despite your history with Mr. Malfoy, I hardly expected you to be among those who took advantage of his state.”

“Took advantage…” Harry stops in the middle of the hallway. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I haven’t taken advantage of anything. Pansy asked me to try to light a fire, make Malfoy act like he was living instead of dead, and I did that. It seemed sometimes like the only times he seemed human were when I was needling him, so I kept at it, trying to help. And when Ernie asked if I could wake him up this morning, because Ernie couldn’t, I did that too. I brought him to the infirmary. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

The pinched look returns to her features, disappointment etched in the furrow between her brows. “I believe that you had absolutely no intention of harming Mr. Malfoy—I am aware that you have had his best interests at heart since you spoke for him at his trials—but I shall be interested to hear if you have anything else to add, once you’ve spoken to Poppy,” she says quietly, almost gently. “You must realize that you couldn’t have hidden this forever, Harry, and I’m terribly disappointed that you tried. It could have resulted in serious injury to Mr. Malfoy, or perhaps even his death.”

His death. Harry licks at his lips, tries to get rid of the dry feeling choking him as he starts moving again, following McGonagall to the infirmary and inside.

Malfoy sleeps, spells hanging in the air around his bed, beeping quietly to monitor his status. Harry can’t read the spells, but he finds the steadiness of the sounds comforting, as if they reassure him that Malfoy is stable right now. When Pomfrey touches his shoulder and gestures to her office, he follows quietly and takes the seat that is offered.

“First, let me tell you that we will be undisturbed during this conversation, and that you need have no fear for Mr. Malfoy’s well-being. The wards are set upon the infirmary and no one will be able to progress past the door until I change them.” Madame Pomfrey clasps her hands together on the table, gazes across at Harry. “However, I must also divulge that this conversation is being magically recorded for review in the future, should Mr. Malfoy require it.”

“Why would Malfoy want to know what we’re talking about?” Harry asks.

“Mr. Malfoy is pregnant.” The words fall heavily into the room, and they make no sense to Harry, but Pomfrey goes on as if she hasn’t just stated the impossible. “At this point I’d say he’s about twelve weeks, almost through the first trimester. The infant is healthy, surprisingly enough, given that Mr. Malfoy appears to have nearly starved himself of vital nutrients and has not been taking any ante natal potions. I have him on nutrition potions and extra helpings from the house elves, who have informed me that Mr. Malfoy has taken most of his meals in the ruined wing of the school.” She gives Harry a disappointed look. “I would hope that you would have taken better care of him, Mr. Potter.”

“Me? He’s pregnant? What?” Harry’s having difficulty wrapping his mind around what she’s said and why she’s saying it to him. “Men don’t get pregnant. And Malfoy’s… wait, Malfoy’s…” His mind skitters off, abruptly taking a turn to arrive at his conversation with Dean about Malfoy’s arse and Harry fancying him. He flushes brightly. Does the entire bloody school think that he’s… “Wait, you don’t think I… we…”

“I am not going to punish you.” Madame Pomfrey lifts her wand and a stack of papers fly to the desk where she spreads them out in front of Harry. The titles jump out at him from awkwardly worded wizarding self-help pamphlets for students.

Wizard Love for Muggles.

I love a wizard, now what?

Five Best Contraceptive Spells for Wizards.

“I understand that you were raised in the Muggle world,” she says carefully. “And given your upbringing, I doubt you knew what difficulties two wizards could encounter. No one will blame you for that, but there is a chance that Mr. Malfoy’s parents may choose to pursue some form of retribution should they decide that you have taken advantage of Mr. Malfoy in a weakened emotional state.”

“Malfoy and I, we haven’t… we aren’t…” Harry’s voice trails off when he realizes that Madame Pomfrey thinks he’s protesting because he’s ashamed to fancy Malfoy. Ashamed that they… even though they didn’t. She truly believes that he’s protesting too hard, and Harry’s cheeks go hot at the thought that someone really believes that he and Malfoy might’ve… done that. This is why McGonagall was disappointed. She thought Harry had gone and gotten Malfoy pregnant. He drops his gaze to the table, voice going soft. “I just wanted to save his life.”

Pomfrey reaches across the desk, bridges the distance to touch his hand, and when he looks up something has shifted in her expression, as if she took his words as an admission of guilt and she is sympathetic now. “I understand how complicated things have become since the war,” she says slowly. “And how difficult it can be to care for someone who has been damaged, particularly when society may look down upon the relationship. And an emotional tether can be a valid help for someone as severely depressed as Mr. Malfoy is, but it can also be a dangerous crutch. If something were to go wrong, and he were entirely dependent upon you for his well-being, he could plummet quickly.”

Severely depressed.

Harry rolls the words around, matches them to Malfoy’s behaviour, his refusal to speak to anyone, or to speak out on his own behalf. It all makes sense now, except for the pregnancy part, which makes absolutely no sense at all. But now that both Madame Pomfrey and Headmistress McGonagall seem to have decided he is involved, perhaps he can use their sympathy to his advantage. He needs more information. “How far along is he?”

“About twelve weeks, as I mentioned earlier. It likely happened early in the term for him to be this far along by the end of November. He is due in early June, but it’s highly likely that the child will be born near the end of May, as men rarely carry to term. Unfortunately, this may have destroyed his chances at taking proper NEWTs.”

Harry feels recrimination in those words, whether she meant it or not. He knows he hasn’t destroyed anything, but someone has, and he’s going to find out who. If Malfoy won’t do anything about it, then Harry will, because Malfoy does not deserve to be treated like this. “I’ll make sure he gets to take his NEWTs,” Harry says quietly. “I’ll make sure he’s healthy, and I’ll make sure he’s safe. And I’ll help him study when he needs it. I had no idea he was pregnant, Madame Pomfrey, but I can assure you that I will make things right. Is he okay now?”

She sits back, a small smile lifting her lips. “He’s far from all right, Mr. Potter, but he will be, given proper nutrition and rest. I will ensure that he knows what he needs to do to properly care for himself. There is a danger to any pregnancy, more so for a man whose body is not designed to carry a child by nature. Magic can only do so much; he will have to do what he can to help. Please, take these with you to read when you can, and I will forward more information when I have retrieved it. We do not generally keep materials regarding pregnancy as we do not intend for our students to become pregnant.”

“I understand.” Harry pushes back, stands slowly, not sure she’s ready to let him go. “Can I see him?”

“He’s sleeping, so no. Let him rest. When he wakes, I will let him know that you wish to see him, and if he is comfortable, I will notify you.” Madame Pomfrey looks as if she has swallowed something sour. “He was most insistent that you not be informed, his deep protestation cementing what Minerva and I had already come to realize, but I cannot simply ignore the role of the other father in a case like this. However, it is his body, and his pregnancy, and in the end, it is his choice how to handle his future. If he refuses to see you, I cannot do anything for you, Mr. Potter, no matter the benevolence of your intentions.”

Harry nods, and resigns himself to not seeing Malfoy at all until he’s back in class. “Thank you.”

He could return to Potions—only half the class time has passed by the time he’s done with Madame Pomfrey—but he turns towards the library instead. He spends the rest of the day there and into the evening, summoning each book that even mentions wizard pregnancy one by one and skimming through them.

It’s obvious he has a lot to learn if he’s going to help save Draco Malfoy, and his unborn child.

#

There are whispers around the castle, and by the time Malfoy is released from the infirmary, the rumors are in full bloom. Some say that he was cursed by the Death Eaters, that he is dying a slow, lingering death and will not make it through the year. Some say he was poisoned by an unnamed student who lost his family in the war, and that he deserves his fate. There are rumors of pregnancy, but those are considered unfounded, because who would want to touch a Death Eater like that?

Malfoy ignores them, slipping back into his ghost of a life, disappearing for meals and becoming a shadow in class. Harry is relieved to see that the dark circles are gone, and that he appears to be alive, though silent and rarely seen. Harry talks to the house elves, makes sure that they are feeding him well and that Malfoy is eating what he is given.

And despite being asked what he knows, he keeps Malfoy’s secret.

He sits down next to him in Potions three weeks after the fateful morning, more than halfway through December. As the school approaches the holidays, the conversation has turned to family plans and who will be remaining at Hogwarts over the break, and the students are ignoring Malfoy for once.

“My life is too peaceful, so you decided to be the one to torment me today?” Malfoy asks dryly. “I thought I was done with you.”

“I’ve saved your life twice now,” Harry says easily. “I’m glad to see you seem to be done throwing it away.” He tries to read the response in Malfoy’s expression, but he looks away too quickly, gaze shadowed and thin lips pursed.

“I didn’t ask you to save me.”

“I know.” Harry inhales roughly, lets it out slowly. “Look, I tried talking to you because Pansy’s worried. She’s worried, Luna’s worried. Ron thinks I’m mad, and Dean…” He cuts himself off right before he says Dean thinks I fancy you because that doesn’t need to be out in the open between them. “You scared the crap out of Ernie, and all I know is that someone’s hurt you and you nearly died because of it.”

“Why should you care? Once you were the one that almost killed me,” Malfoy snaps. He picks up his quill, hunches over his books as he stabs at the parchment, writing notes with thick lines.

“Because I do care.” Harry’s voice is louder than he means, and he feels the eyes of the class upon them. He struggles to contain his frustration, body shuddering with each breath. “You… me… we’re linked. Try to imagine a life without me in it, Malfoy. You’d be bored out of your mind. You live to drive me mad.”

There’s a flicker of a smile turning up just the corner of Malfoy’s mouth. “You might have a point there.”

Harry relaxes back into his seat. “I haven’t told anyone, you know.”

“Because you’re embarrassed that they think it’s—”

Harry reaches across the bench, puts his hand over Malfoy’s mouth before he thinks better of it, trapping the words inside. “This isn’t the place to talk about it,” he whispers. “Besides, you know it’s not, and I know it’s not. And I know that whoever it is, is a complete arse and if you won’t do something about it, I will.”

“Because you want to save me.” The words are flat, dropped into the space where Malfoy’s head is bowed.

“Because I need you around to make my life hell,” Harry says. It almost sounds reasonable to him, as if this is all about their enmity.

“It doesn’t matter.” Malfoy shoves the book towards him. “If you’re my partner, let’s get started. You do the work, I’ll direct. As it turns out, I’m banned from touching most Potion ingredients until June.”

“Then it sounds like I’ll be your partner for the rest of the year,” Harry says easily, glancing at the list. “Me or Pansy. Maybe Luna when she’s decided she belongs here. Ernie would work with you too, you know.”

“MacMillan’s not in this class.”

“He’s in others, if you need his help.” Harry gets up, reviews the list one more time to make sure he remembers everything. “You don’t have to tell them why. Just work with them, Malfoy. You’re not alone.”

He doesn’t give Malfoy a chance to deny it. Harry isn’t going to let Malfoy sink back down. Maybe he does have a saving people thing, but at the same time, maybe he can save Malfoy.

#

There is a part of Harry that thinks it’ll be easy. That once Malfoy has support, he’ll snap out of it, stop being depressed and just start talking to them again. Of course, it’s not that simple.

Malfoy works with people. He goes to every class and he gets his work done. But he still disappears at mealtimes, and he rarely speaks unless he has to. He avoids the bullies by simply not being there at all, and it drives Harry mad.

“You can’t save him if he doesn’t want to be saved, mate.” Ron speaks around a mouthful of bread at dinner, kicking Harry under the table when his gaze wanders again. “You either need to give up, or tell him how you feel.”

“How I…” There’s a twist in Harry’s stomach. “Why does everyone seem to think I fancy Malfoy?”

“Because anyone with eyes can see that you do,” Dean points out. “You stare at him from across the room. You have to be where he is. You can’t bloody well stand when he’s up to something and you’re not there.”

“We fight all the time,” Harry protests.

“So do Hermione and I.” Ron grins, reaching for the plate of chicken and grabbing a second helping. “Making up is sodding brilliant. You’ll like that part, trust me.”

Harry almost breaks down and tells them what’s happening. That it’s not just that Malfoy’s in a dark mood, and it’s not just that he’s gone from rail thin to starting to thicken up a bit around the middle. That it isn’t him who did this, and it isn’t him that’s abandoning Malfoy. He’s trying to make it right.

The thing is, when he thinks it through like that, it sounds as if they’re right, and he doesn’t know what to do with that.

Besides, the story isn’t his to tell.

“I’m going back up to the room,” Harry says quietly. “If you see Malfoy, remind him we need to finish up our assignment for Potions.”

“Right, tell Malfoy you’re waiting for him in our room,” Ron says. “Don’t forget the privacy spells, Harry.”

There’s a burst of laughter from the other end of the table, and a laughing statement about a brilliant piece of arse, and Harry wonders if they all have sex on the brain. Maybe he’s the only one not doing it. “Shove it,” he mutters at Ron, and he heads out.

He doesn’t go back up to the room, not yet. There’s no point, not when the only assignment he has is Potions and Malfoy’s hardly likely to show up until much later. Harry’s paid attention, and Malfoy usually walks in minutes before curfew, heading straight upstairs before the rest of his roommates leave the common room. He spends the rest of the time elsewhere in the castle.

Harry heads straight to the ruined wing, surprised to be able to find his way in again. He stops in the space where he met up with Colin, waiting to see if any ghosts bar his way, but this time he’s free to meander through the hallways, skin itching from the feel of old curses. He can hear voices down the way: Colin, Malfoy, and a high-pitched giggle that makes Harry stop in his tracks because of course, Lavender is here as well.

He rounds the corner slowly, stops in front of a door that’s cracked open. Water is running beyond, and he remembers another abandoned bathroom in another time. It takes everything he has to carefully slide his wand away, make sure he walks through the door with his hands up and out, clearly unarmed. “Malfoy,” he calls out.

Colin sits on the edge of a bath that’s full of water, his ghostly hand trailing across the surface without disturbing a drop. Lavender is perched on the edge of a sink, stripes ripped from her skin by claws. She still wears her uniform, shredded in places by Greyback, the skirt riding up her thighs as she crosses her legs, feet swinging.

“Hullo, Harry,” she says. “Colin said he thought you might be back.”

“I’m looking for Malfoy,” Harry responds, because this isn’t about the ghosts. He is shaking in his shoes, knows he’s responsible for them dying before they ever left school. Every bit of torment, every death, they’re all his fault because he didn’t take care of Voldemort fast enough. Even Malfoy, even this depression, it’s all on Harry’s shoulder. He should’ve killed the dark lord sooner. He should have ended the war.

“I don’t want to be found.” Malfoy’s words drip with irritation. He is completely submerged under the water aside from his head, a faint shadow of a body floating beneath murky liquid. Harry can catch the scent of something in the bath, but he has no idea what, only that it makes his nose itch almost as badly as the stress over his skin. “So go, Potter. Leave me be.”

“You can’t just run away.” Harry makes himself a space on another edge of the tub, facing Colin, his knee almost brushing against the ghosts’.

“I beg to differ,” Malfoy sneers. “I can, I have, and I will continue to do so. Go, Potter. I have everything I need here.”

“You need people,” Harry counters. “You need help.”

“I have Colin and Lavender.” Malfoy pushes himself to sitting, his skin pale against the darkness of the water. Drips of water slide from his shoulders, over his chest, and Harry turns away, refusing to look. “They were Gryffindors once. Don’t you approve, Potter? Don’t you care that I’m reaching out across house lines? Admittedly, they’re dead. Such a good show bravery made for them, leaving them rotting in this place.”

“I’m buried in Bristol,” Lavender says with a soft laugh. “My body is rotting there. I’m actually quite pleased to be here in spirit. Did you know that Ron’s gone and pierced his—”

“I do not want to hear about Weasley’s pierced nipple,” Malfoy snaps. “Again. Let’s find a different topic of conversation, Brown.”

“I could haunt someone else,” she tells him, and sticks out her tongue.

“No one else is as entertaining,” Malfoy says.

It’s strange to watch them, and it strikes Harry that this is banter. This is friendly teasing, as if they’ve been doing it since Malfoy returned for the school year. “You’re friends,” he says quietly.

“Well, it’s not exactly possible for the living and dead to be friends,” Colin says. “But as much as we can be, yes, I’d say we are.”

“It’s a friendly haunting,” Lavender says. “I was thinking I might go with him at the year’s end. It has to be better than this dreary place. Parvati screamed when I tried to talk to her, and Ron fainted.”

Harry remembers that, right near the beginning of the year when Ron fainted dead away in the shower once. Ron had said he saw a mouse. Lavender studies her fingernails, but Harry can see the hurt twist to her mouth.

“Besides,” Lavender says softly. “Draco will need someone to help watch the baby.”

“That’s what house elves are for, Brown.” Malfoy stresses her last name.

“There’s nothing wrong with a ghostly nanny, Draco. We had three ghosts at our hotel; they all helped out with my brothers and me.” Lavender hops off the sink and bends over the bath, water splashing towards Malfoy. “You can’t affect who I decide to haunt. If I want to haunt you, I’ll haunt you. It’s either that or start popping up in the boys’ loo and that’s just a little too much like Myrtle to make me happy.”

Malfoy leans back, arms out of the water across the sides of the bath. From this angle, Harry can see hints of his body beneath the water. He’s not sure if he’s imagining the gentle rounding of Malfoy’s belly, or if there really is a bump starting to show there.

Colin coughs, and Harry jerks his gaze up.

“Are you here to ogle me?” Malfoy asks, and Harry can feel the weight of Lavender and Colin’s gazes upon him.

“I’m here because I think you need a friend,” he says quietly. “And I’m offering to be one. I’m also here because I think we need to… to talk to whoever did that to you.”

“Oh Harry, no,” Lavender whispers, as Malfoy’s expression closes off.

“No one did this to me,” Malfoy hisses, and Colin winces, jumping off the edge of the bath. Both ghosts retreat as Malfoy leans forward. Harry wants to rejoice at the emotion he shows, and at the same time he resists taking a step back from the force of that emotion.

“You didn’t get pregnant on your own,” Harry says.

“I didn’t have sex, either,” Malfoy snarls. “Yes, I’m gay. Yes, I like blokes. But I have never taken it up the arse. Who the fuck do you think would even touch me here?”

There are too many answers on the tip of Harry’s tongue for him to choose just one. The problem is, though, that Malfoy’s right. Even though Dean seems to have relaxed about Malfoy, Harry knows he’d never get involved with Malfoy personally. Ron might be willing to take the piss out on Harry for fancying Malfoy, but Harry worries what would happen if he ever acted on it and Ron had to face it as a reality. The only ones he can think who might be willing to get close to Malfoy are either the wrong gender, or are well, Harry.

“Someone did,” he says slowly. “Is it possible you don’t remember?”

“Get out.” Malfoy takes a gulp of air and sinks under the water.

Harry’s about to protest, but he’s pushed from the room before he can blink, the door closing to leave Colin in the hall with him. “Lavender will take care of him,” Colin says. “And you need to go. Stop upsetting him, Harry. Let well enough alone. Don’t you think he’s having a hard enough time this year?”

“I’m only trying to make it better.” He’s trying but it also seems like he’s failing, like he can’t do anything right where Malfoy is concerned.

Colin turns his camera over and over in his hands. “I need you to do me a favor, Harry. Send this to Dennis.” He holds out the camera, and when Harry reaches for it, he’s surprised to discover that it’s solid, the real thing. He’s holding the camera that he remembers Colin hiding behind constantly, flashing pictures of everyone.

“I thought Dennis would be back,” Colin says quietly. “But I guess Ma and Da couldn’t bear to let him go, and I understand that, too. I just want him to have it.”

The camera is a heavy weight in his hands, as if the responsibility and guilt drag on Harry’s hands. “I’ll make sure he gets it in time for the holidays,” he offers, and Colin nods.

The ghost grins, a quick bright flash. “We’ll talk to him,” Colin says. “You’re right, he needs more than us and house elves. He needs people. He just doesn’t think he deserves them, and he’s too proud to ask for help.”

Harry nods, something catching in his throat at the offer. “Make sure he takes his potions,” he says quickly. “And eats.”

“And if we learn anything… we’ll let you know.” Colin seems to struggle over the words, his body leaning back towards the door. “I need to go. Get out of here, Harry. Let Draco have his space.”

Harry walks away, the camera held carefully between his hands. It’s odd to him that these ghosts call him Draco, while he’s still Malfoy to Harry. As if by dying they’ve gone beyond being different, and he almost laughs at that, a dark sound that he swallows back before it escapes.

After all, if dying is what it takes, Harry’s already done that. In some ways, he’s as much of a ghost as they are.

He reaches for his glasses, sliding his finger up the bridge of his nose and sighing when they’re not there because it’s just another thing that’s different now. He’s not the person that he used to be. After the war, none of them are.

#

“Harry.” Hermione loops her arm in his while Ginny brackets him on the other side. He finds himself wrestled into an empty classroom before he can protest, and he quickly realizes they aren’t alone.

Pansy is there, leaning against a desk where Luna sits on the surface, her legs crossed, rose-colored glasses sliding down her nose. Ron, Dean, Seamus, Neville, Ernie… they’re all there, and they all seem to be waiting for him to say something.

“What?”

“Well?” Pansy asks. “Tell us how he is.”

“Pansy wants to know what’s going on with Draco,” Luna says idly, her hand tangling with Pansy’s. “She’s still worried. He looks peaked, even though he’s sleeping. And people are saying things.”

“People are saying you’ve gone beyond obsessed and that you’re sleeping with him, mate,” Ron says slowly. “Are you sleeping with Malfoy?”

“Malfoy is taking ante natal potions,” Hermione says, tone quiet and clipped. “Harry, have you—”

“No!” He sees the dubious looks and remembers how McGonagall and Pomfrey took his protests and sighs. “Fine, yes, I fancy him. Probably always have done, you’re right. He’s got a bloody nice arse, and he’s fit, and he’s a sodding prick, but I fancy him. But there’s nothing going on between us, and there hasn’t been.”

Hermione purses her lips, looks at him and waits.

He’s not going to get out of this by lying. “But, yes, you’re also right that he’s pregnant,” Harry says quietly. It’s not his story to tell, but he can’t see a way out of it, not when they’ve already dug out the truth on their own. “That’s why he needs a partner in Potions, and why he has to be careful in Herbology. It’s not my child, and none of this can go beyond this room. If he knew you knew he’d…”

“Go silent again,” Pansy says, tone clipped. “He doesn’t want us to know. Sometimes he’s such an idiot. Do his parents know yet?”

“They haven’t come to kill me, so probably not,” Harry mutters. “Apparently everyone thinks I fancy him, and McGonagall and Pomfrey think it’s my baby. Malfoy’s told them it’s not, but the more we protest—”

“The more they think it’s true.” Ginny smirks. “If this weren’t so horrible, it’d be bloody well funny, Harry. Now who is at fault? I’ve got a bat bogey hex waiting.”

Harry frowns at her. “You want to bat bogey the bloke that got Malfoy pregnant?”

Ginny sighs. “Well, it’s Malfoy, which isn’t good, but you obviously bloody well care about the prick, so yes, I want to bat bogey the bloke that hurt him.”

“I know better hexes.” Pansy doesn’t smile, even when Luna touches her arm. “None of them are illegal, or permanently damaging,” she promises. “Just horribly uncomfortable.”

“I don’t know who it is,” Harry admits. It’s been bothering him since he found out, and he doesn’t know how to go about finding out. Not when Malfoy avoids everyone and refuses to talk and doesn’t even seem to care. “Obviously no one in this room, and we’re the only ones who are even willing to tolerate him.”

“Ask.” Pansy looks around, like no one’s thought of this before. “It’s Draco, he’ll give it up soon enough.”

“Seems like he already gave it up,” Seamus says quietly, hushing when Dean puts a hand over his mouth.

“Be polite,” Luna chides softly. “Who’s going to be here over the holidays?”

“I will, and I think Malfoy said he’s staying.” Harry had spoken to him briefly about a Potions assignment they’d thought of doing for some extra work. He’d promised Malfoy he’d be here, in case Malfoy wanted to do it over break.

It takes a few minutes to sort through them all. Neville’s going home to his Gran, and to spend time with his new girlfriend Hannah. Hermione’s going to the Weasleys’ with Ron and Ginny. Seamus promised his Mam he’d be home and Dean’s going with him. It leaves Ernie, Luna, and Pansy, along with Harry and Malfoy, which is enough for Luna to clap happily.

“We’ll get it sorted over break.” She smiles at Harry. “I know you’ll think of something. Just tell us how you’d like us to help. Perhaps all Draco needs is a few nice days and a little help remembering.”

Harry’s pretty sure it isn’t that simple, but he doesn’t have any better ideas right now. He’s just hoping that once the worst of Hogwarts are gone, Malfoy is able to relax. Maybe then they can figure things out.

#

The first morning of the holiday break is pure chaos, with the students who are leaving rushing about with their things, ready for the train. Harry lingers in the hallway, watching most of the eighth year boys leave until only he and Ernie are left in the hall, and Malfoy remains in the other room, still asleep.

“You ought to move into our room for the holiday,” Ernie offers. “Rather than have to sleep alone.”

Harry might argue that it’s nice to have a room alone for once, but the truth is, he likes hearing other people breathe at night. Being alone reminds him of his time with his aunt and uncle, and then he can’t fall asleep. “Might do that,” he agrees, even though he didn’t ask any of the others if he could borrow their bed. If all else fails, he could just kip on the floor.

They make their way downstairs to where breakfast is being laid out in their common room by the house elves. It’s part of the tradition of leaving day, where no one has to go to the great hall before lunch, and it means they are both there when Luna walks in with a box haphazardly packed with clothes floating along behind her. She smiles and waves before skipping up to the girls’ side of the dormitory, and Ernie shrugs at Harry.

“Hermione says Luna’s here half the time anyway,” Harry tells him. “No one seems to mind. And Pansy’s the only one there now.” He glances at the stairs like the girls might be coming down sometime soon, but he suspects that’s not likely.

“Do you think he’ll sleep all break?” Ernie asks, following Harry’s gaze but apparently on another line of thought entirely. “Ought we wake him up?”

“I think he deserves the chance to get some sleep in peace without anyone bullying him.” Harry’s seen how Zach and Theo can be at times, and even Dean’s still cold to him publicly. It can’t be easy living in a room where you know your roommates hate you. “I’ll check on him in a bit, if you want.”

“Just in case he’s not well again,” Ernie says. “I’ll go to the library; I’ve a special assignment in Charms that I want to work on. You can have… you can have privacy. In case you need it.” Ernie’s blond hair falls across his forehead, his cheeks a rosy pink when he speaks.

It makes Harry’s skin warm as he realizes what Ernie is trying to say, and he shakes his head. “He’s bloody well pregnant,” he says quietly. “I’m not going to take advantage of him, Ernie.” He couldn’t, not when he actually cares.

Ernie flashes a small smile that seems to say he’s not sure whether he believes Harry or not, then gathers up his things and heads out. Harry climbs the stairs to the boys’ dormitory, uncertain whether he should interrupt or not, then just as uncertain whether he should move things into the other room or not.

In the end, he gathers a few things together and transfigures his own mattress to be thinner and floats it behind him as he maneuvers it into the other room. He’s just setting it on the floor when Malfoy stirs on his own bed, the curtains fluttering with the movement and a soft noise audible.

“Malfoy?” The mattress lands with a thump and Harry leaves it where it is; he can always fix it later. “Hey, Malfoy, you alright?”

The noise is louder now as the curtains kick open, like a privacy charm is broken. It’s a thin cry, a whine of fear and frustration. Harry reaches for the curtains, tugs them back to find Malfoy curled up in a ball, one hand thrown over his head, the visible parts of his face wet with tears as he protests nonononono in a steady stream.

Nightmare.

Harry’s all too familiar with those, and he tries calling Malfoy’s name twice more before he reaches cautiously for a shoulder, just barely touching him when Malfoy jerks back and yells, one hand swinging out. They stare at each other, Malfoy huddled against the wall with the blankets wrapped around him, and Harry staring warily at him.

“Your privacy charm broke when you thrashed around and opened your curtains,” Harry says quietly. “You were having a nightmare.”

“I bloody well know that I was having a nightmare,” Malfoy snaps. “It’s none of your concern. What are you doing in here, anyway?”

“Everyone’s left and breakfast is done and you were still sleeping. Ernie and I were worried.” Harry puts some of the worry onto Ernie’s shoulders, not sure he wants Malfoy to know exactly how concerned he is. “Besides, it’s just the three of us here in this dorm, so Ernie thought I might kip in here. I’ve brought my own mattress.”

Malfoy sniffs loudly. “I’d think you’d enjoy your privacy, Potter.”

“Actually, I hate sleeping alone.” Harry lets the words spill out, a bit of honesty between them. “I don’t like the silence, not when hearing people snort and snore in their sleep means I’m with friends, and silence always meant I was at home with relatives I didn’t exactly get on with.”

Malfoy shifts, the blankets sliding down to show a bruise blossoming on his arm. As he sits, he winces, shifts again and flushes. “If you’ll excuse me, I did not invite you into my room and I do value my privacy in the morning, so kindly arse off. If I decide I want your company I shall find you, Potter.”

He’s lying, Harry is sure of it. Malfoy’s tense, holding himself up as if he can’t bear to sit on the mattress, his arm tight under the bruise. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing,” Malfoy snaps. “I slept, just like everyone else. What the bloody hell do you think happened?”

“You look like someone grabbed you.” Harry’s hand flicks through the air; he’s not willing to reach for Malfoy and risk being punched. “Those are fingerprints, Malfoy. Fresh ones.”

Malfoy’s gaze flicks down, then away from his arm, his expression closing further. “I wasn’t grabbed,” he says mildly. “Shove off, Potter. Leave me alone.”

Harry takes a step back. By all rights, he shouldn’t push this, shouldn’t try when Malfoy’s already told him to go. He inhales slowly, lets it out. “I’m going to go get Colin,” he says quietly. “And I’m going to ask him to stay with you, because right now, you don’t look like you ought to be alone. I know that no one left in this dorm means any harm to you, but I can’t say about the rest of the school. And I’m worried for you, Malfoy. If you won’t worry about yourself, someone ought to, might as well be me.”

“Be as kind as you like, I’m not going arse up for you,” Malfoy sneers. “Just because I’m already pregnant doesn’t mean I’m willing to bloody well shag everyone who’s interested, even if you do happen to be the saviour of the wizarding world.”

“I’m not trying to get into your bloody pants!” Harry stops when he realizes how loud his voice has gotten, a flush staining his skin. “It’s not about that, Malfoy. And fine. You’re okay, I’ll trust you. Just… if you do need anything, I’m trying to be a friend.”

He turns his back, has his hand on the door to pull it open when he hears the slithering of a body between the sheets, then a heavy thump. Harry turns quickly to find Malfoy in a heap on the floor, one thin ankle covered in bruises where it peeks out of his pajama trousers, his hand cradling his middle and the other at the small of his back. “You’re hurt,” Harry whispers.

“Don’t just stand there, help me up,” Malfoy demands. “If you’re going to claim you’re a friend…”

Harry crosses the room in a few steps, carefully avoiding the mattress he’s left in the middle of the room. He wedges one arm under Malfoy’s shoulders and helps him to stand, noting the way he moves carefully, as if he aches. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says quietly. “But you ought to tell McGonagall who did this to you. She nearly had my head when she thought I’d gotten you pregnant and left you to die from it. She’s been keeping an eye on me ever since.”

“I don’t know.” Malfoy takes a hesitant step, moving with slow motion and Harry’s help towards the door. “Get me to the showers, Potter, and I don’t want to speak of this again.”

It takes time to maneuver him through the hall and prop him up where he can get changed by himself. Harry waits until Malfoy is beyond the curtains before he starts talking again, trying not to think about the fact that Malfoy is naked and only a few feet away.

“How can you not know?” he asks.

“There’ve never been bruises before.” Malfoy’s voice is muffled by the water, and Harry wonders if it feels safer to speak here, as if Malfoy can pretend that there’s no one else to hear him. “I’ve woken sometimes, aching and feeling… sore… but there’ve never been bruises.”

Harry closes his eyes, his head falling back against the wall with a thump. “Malfoy, are you saying that you’ve been attacked and you don’t remember?”

“I’d remember if I was attacked,” Malfoy says sharply. “Just like I’d remember if I’d had sex.”

“Maybe not. Maybe they’ve been Obliviating you.” It seems so obvious to Harry now, as if it stands out bright and sharp against everything else. “Malfoy, I think you’ve been—”

“Don’t.” Malfoy cuts him off. “If I can’t remember, then it hasn’t happened.”

“You’re pregnant. Something happened.”

That’s probably more blunt that Malfoy needs to hear, and Harry isn’t surprised when he gets nothing back but the sound of water pouring over skin. A moment later the curtain is yanked back and Malfoy stands there, dripping wet, bruises dark against his pale skin. He glares at Harry. “I have nightmares,” he says flatly. “And I wake up sticky and aching, and yes, it seems quite possible that someone’s been buggering me when I can’t remember it. Is that what you wanted to hear, Potter?”

“That’s what I’d already guessed.” Harry crosses his arms, trying to hold onto his temper. “What I want to hear is that you’d like us to help you figure out who it is. Turn them in. Because they hurt you, Malfoy, and you do not deserve that. And you do have friends, whether you think you do or not. There are people who care, and we want to help.”

Malfoy yanks the curtain shut and turns the water off. “You can’t force me to accept your help,” he mutters.

“I can’t, but I don’t have to stop offering it, either,” Harry points out. “Did it happen again? Last night?”

Silence stretches for a long moment before Malfoy finally whispers, “I think so, yes.”

“You ought to see Madame Pomfrey,” Harry suggests. “I’ll walk with you, if you’d like.”

“I think perhaps I ought to put on some clothing, first,” Malfoy says. “If you’d be kind enough to get some for me.”

Harry half expects that Malfoy will be gone by the time he gets back, but he’s still there, with a towel wrapped around his waist, shivering and skinny despite the gentle bulge of his stomach. Harry turns his back while Malfoy dresses, then waits patiently for him to put on socks and shoes as well. In the end, Malfoy is as done up as he ever is, his robes an outer armour against the world.

They walk in silence to the infirmary, and when they arrive Harry pushes open the door and motions for Malfoy to go in.

“Aren’t you planning on following me?” Malfoy asks. Harry can’t read the note in his voice, can’t guess the correct answer.

“Do you want me to?” Harry offers a wry smile at Malfoy’s answering shake of his head. “Well then, no. But I’ll be back in the dormitory when you’re done. Or if you need anything, send an elf, or a ghost. They’ll know how to find me.”

He can see Madame Pomfrey in the background, waiting, her brow furrowed as she watches the two of them. Malfoy reaches out to grasp Harry’s hand, squeezing it firmly. “Thank you.” His voice is low, and rough.

“Can I help you? Is everything all right with your pregnancy?” Madame Pomfrey approaches, and Malfoy twists to look at her.

Malfoy lets the door go, but Harry can hear his words as it closes slowly. They are carefully spoken, each one chosen with care, Malfoy’s tone clipped and sharp.

“My pregnancy is fine,” Malfoy says. “I would like to report a rape.”

#

Harry can’t focus on the bit of work he has for the holidays. He tries flying, but even taking to the air can’t clear the worry from his mind. He is relieved when a house elf finds him, lets him know that the Headmistress is waiting for him in her office. He drops his broom in his room then makes his way there, his steps far more steady and sure than the rapid beat of his heart.

“Is he all right?” he asks as soon as the door opens. He knows why he’s there; there’s no point in drawing it out.

McGonagall stands with a plate of biscuits in her hand, and she holds it towards him. “Come in, Mr. Potter. Have a biscuit.”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m not hungry right now, but a cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss,” he admits. It might settle his stomach, might make it easier to think. “Are you going to yell at me again?” He steps into the room, feels the door close with a final sounding thunk behind him.

“I’m going to apologize,” she says as she turns away to set the plate down and lift the tea pot. She pours it into a cup and offers it to Harry. “I made an assumption, and I was incorrect.”

“Not entirely.” Harry turns the cup in his hands, sinks into a seat even though it wasn’t offered. He takes a sip, feeling the heat spread through him, burning the back of his tongue. “I fancy him,” he admits. “You’re right there. But there’s nothing between us, and it’s obvious he doesn’t fancy me back. Now’s not the time for that, anyway. Someone’s hurt him, and I just want to…” He makes a face. “I just want to help.”

“Help is exactly what Mr. Malfoy needs right now, and as it turns out, help is what he is willing to accept, as long as you are involved.” Her gaze narrows, her lips pursed, and for a moment Harry thinks she is about to say something. He tilts his head, gestures for her to go on, but she turns away to set the pot down on the table. “It is his tale to tell, of course. We were unable to immediately determine the identities of his attackers—”

“Attackers?” Harry hadn’t thought about that, that it could be more than one person terrorizing Malfoy.

“He bears the imprints of at least two distinct hands upon his body,” she says gently. “We must assume that there were at least two of them, although we know little more. I’ll leave it to you to speak to him, but give him time, Mr. Potter. This is not easy for him, even without the knowledge or memory of the events. I can’t imagine that dredging it out of his subconscious will be a pleasurable experience.”

“It’s Christmas.” This isn’t what Harry means to say, but it slips out because it is only a few days from Christmas. “That’s not the time to be digging up bad memories.” It’s a time for gifts and family, and he worries at his lower lip, wondering at the lack of Malfoys in the school. “What about his parents?”

“Lucius Malfoy has taken advantage of the unique travel opportunities offered by the Ministry, and will be spending the next few years in Italy.” McGonagall smiles thinly, and Harry translates that as Lucius Malfoy made the choice to accept exile rather than Azkaban. “As long as the Ministry receives no word of misdeed, I am certain that he will return eventually. In the meantime, we have communicated via owl, and while he is concerned for his son’s welfare, I believe his exact words were that if his son prefers to take it up the arse and not retain his purity for the wedding day, then perhaps he can also bear the resulting bastard.”

Harry drops his gaze, looking into his tea. “And his mum?”

“Narcissa sends packages weekly, and she is worried for him, but the circumstances of her marriage and travel plans mean she cannot return to see him.” McGonagall’s tone gentles. “We have yet to inform his parents of the latest development. And no, your name was never involved. Despite our assumptions, Mr. Malfoy insisted that you be removed from all correspondence, and as it turns out, his decision was correct.”

“Tell her I owe her a life debt,” Harry says quietly. “And that I will make sure—by will or by money—that he survives this. Tell her that for me, please.”

He glances up in the ensuing silence, flushes under the deep regard that she gives him.

“I will,” she agrees, and finally takes the seat opposite him. “Now, you will find that you need this, Mr. Potter.” She slides a small bag across the table to him, and when Harry peers inside, he sees five stones. “If you and your compatriots carry these, you will be allowed entrance into areas usually restricted during holidays, including the Charms classroom, the Potions classroom, and the private Defence library. I am certain that the resources available there will be able to aid you on your way to discovering how this situation came about.”

“You mean finding out who raped Malfoy.” Harry says it bluntly, needs to say it just this once to practice before he might be able to say it to his face.

“Yes.” Her voice is even. “Mr. Malfoy does not trust the faculty to give this the due diligence that it requires—and I cannot blame him, as we have not protected him properly yet this year. Thus I must leave the investigation in your capable hands, Mr. Potter, as he somehow trusts that you wish to save him.” Her smile twists, amused. “He has quite the vocabulary when he speaks of you and your need to save those around you.”

“As long as he lets us help.” Harry reaches for the plate of biscuits, taking one and enjoying the sweet burst across his tongue. “Could I take one of these for…”

“I’ll have the house elves deliver a tin to your room,” she replies.

“Thank you.” Harry isn’t sure if McGonagall is finished, but he’s done and ready to move on. He wants to go back to the room, talk to Malfoy, figure out what to do next and how they are going to get to the truth. He hesitates, though, turning back to look at her after he’s already taken steps towards the door. “Are you aware that there are new ghosts in the ruined wing?” he asks.

“They do explore the castle on occasion,” McGonagall replies. “And I received a lovely letter from the Creeveys asking me to thank the anonymous student who found and sent Colin’s camera to Dennis.”

“He asked me to.” Harry chews on his lip, trying to figure out how to approach what he wants to say. “Malfoy spends a lot of time there. With the ghosts, in the ruined space. It’s safe, I think. And they like him. The ghosts, I mean. Lavender claims she’s going to stay with him and keep haunting him when he leaves here. And I’ve been thinking that maybe when we rebuild that space, it ought to be a memorial. A safe place for people to go, with protections around it. Someplace for the ghosts to be remembered—I don’t know if there are others besides Lavender and Colin.” Harry hasn’t wanted to find out, half afraid that he might find Remus and Tonks in there somewhere, or Fred pulling pranks on other ghosts. He suspects that many of the dead are within those walls.

“If you can find me someone willing to invest the time in designing and planning how to renovate that wing, Mr. Potter, you can be in charge of construction.” She waves at the door. “Be off with you, now. I believe you have several tasks to accomplish, and I assume you’ll be going to Hogsmeade to shop before Christmas as well.”

Harry already sent all the gifts he needed to the Weasleys and to Teddy, and even gifts to his aunt and uncle and Dudley. He blinks twice as he realizes that she means for the people here: Luna, Pansy, Ernie, and Malfoy. His breath catches, wondering what to get them, and most importantly, what would be the perfect gift for a boy he’s falling for, who doesn’t want him at all.

He nods once quickly. “Thank you,” he says, and he heads out.

#

Pansy, Luna, and Ernie are in the common room, sitting around a game board that Harry doesn’t recognize while Luna explains the rules with quiet words and fluid gestures. She glances up when Harry comes in, and smiles broadly. “Harry, Colin and Lavender are upstairs with Draco now, but I’m certain he would like to see you, too.”

Harry hesitates, since it’s obvious that Malfoy passed by this small group. “Did he… did he talk to you?”

“He said it’s fine with him if you kip in our room,” Ernie volunteers.

“That’s an improvement over this morning.” Harry offers a wry smile. “Did he take lunch upstairs with him?” When the others exchange confused looks, Harry takes that as a no and quickly makes up two plates from the abandoned buffet set out on the sideboard and carries them both up to the dormitory.

It feels odd to go past his own room and straight into the next, bumping it open with his hip while his hands are full. It flies away from him faster than expected, and Lavender giggles at his surprise to see her holding it open for him. “Is that for me? You shouldn’t have, Harry.” She reaches ghostly fingers for the chocolate biscuits, and Harry pulls them away out of pure reflex. She laughs again, bright and loud.

“Lavender,” Malfoy says drily, and she lets the laughter fall away with a small pout. “As pleased as I am that you are happy, we’ve discussed the issue of volume in the past.”

“They snipe all the time.” Colin appears at Harry’s shoulder and one of the plates floats away in his ghostly hands, delivered to Malfoy. “I’d say they were flirting, except—”

“I’m a ghost, and he’s not interested in girls,” Lavender finishes his sentence. “We’ll be platonic life partners.” She giggles. “Unlife and life partners? Either way, he’s stuck with me. Thankfully he doesn’t mind.”

“It doesn’t seem to matter if I do,” Malfoy tells her, but there’s a faint flush to his cheeks and he seems somehow pleased by her attention. He ducks his head, picking a biscuit from the plate and biting into it. “If you two don’t mind, I’d like to speak with Potter alone.” He glances back up, looks between the two ghosts who remain near him. “I’ll be fine. I’d think you’d know that Potter is one of the good ones.”

Harry finds himself on the receiving end of assessing looks from two ghosts, two people that he remembers from before the world turned completely upside down. Two people who died because of him. Then Lavender’s expression softens and she darts in to brush a kiss against his cheek, and Colin claps his shoulder.

“If you need anything, all you need to do is call,” Colin says. He takes Lavender’s hand and the two of them disappear through the wall, a faint echo of Lavender’s laugh still ringing in the room as they go.

Harry spots his mattress on the floor next to Malfoy’s bed, not out of the way where he’d left it. He sinks onto it, sitting cross-legged with his own plate. He’s hungry, finally, but he still picks at the selection of meats, cheese, and bread. “Have you told them?”

“They came to the infirmary while I was still speaking with Madame Pomfrey. We asked if they’d seen anything of use in their haunting of me.” Malfoy’s smile flickers slightly. “Unfortunately, while they were able to fill in some of the holes in my memory, they were unaware of the actual event. Unable to follow me, it seems, as if whoever is at fault was aware of the ghosts and managed to cast some form of barrier to them.”

“I didn’t think anything could be a barrier to a ghost.” Harry’s brow furrows. “That’s part of being a ghost; they aren’t subject to the rules of magic.”

“Whoever it is has deft skills in Charms and Potions.” Malfoy picks at the edge of his blanket. “Madame Pomfrey found remnants of a potion she could not identify still in my system, and she suspects it is that which stole my memory, not obliviation.” His lips purse, pressed thinly. “After repeated attempts at legilimency, she claims that my memories show no signs of tampering, they are merely clouded thickly enough that I am unable to retrieve them. The actual issue begins well before the event—Colin remembers seeing me last night at a point after my final memory—and lasts through sleep and into morning. In order to retrieve my memories, we either need to find an antidote to the potion, or we need to find a way to press forth through the clouding into the memories that lie wrapped within.”

“I don’t see you enjoying the idea of someone pressing into your mind hard enough to accomplish that,” Harry says, and Malfoy gives him a dark look. “Which explains why McGonagall has opened the Potions and Charms classrooms for us.” He spills the stones onto the bed, explaining what they have access to over the holiday, and for the first time, Harry sees Malfoy smile.

Malfoy touches one stone, glances at the door. “Do you think Pansy, Luna, and Ernie have that much interest in the situation? I have not spoken to them yet.”

“They know something’s wrong,” Harry says firmly. “And Pansy asked me to help. If Hermione and Ron were here, they’d help too. You’re not alone, Malfoy. You don’t deserve this, and we’ll help you make it right.”

Malfoy tilts his head, expression quiet and resigned. “I believe you, Potter. I think I truly believe you.”

Harry considers him, and screws up his courage. He stands with his plate in his hand. “Budge over,” he says, waiting until Malfoy makes room for him before he sits down, his hips pressed against Malfoy’s.

“Is this your way of proving that I’m not alone?” Malfoy almost laughs, the tension slipping away from his expression.

“Is it working?” Harry pops a half a biscuit in his mouth, grins around it.

“Might do.” Malfoy holds his hand out, a crystal flying into it. He sets it on the bed between them, tapping it, and a black and white image rises from it, almost recognizable as an infant, while the room is filled with a strange whooshing quick thump. Malfoy’s breath shudders out. “That’s her heartbeat. That’s her. The baby’s a girl. Whoever else is involved doesn’t matter: she’s mine, and I’m having a girl.”

Harry reaches out, covers Malfoy’s hand with his own, squeezes back when Malfoy holds on tightly. Lunch is forgotten as they sit there quietly and watch the image of the baby—the little girl—as she sucks her thumb and her heartbeat thumps quietly around them.

#

“Illyria,” Luna says, her fingers trailing across three separate textbooks open on the bench in front of her before she idly turns the page for one of them. “No, Lyric. Isn’t Lyric a lovely name?”

“Most would choose the name Melody,” Ernie offers quietly, and Luna blinks at him.

“That’s exactly why I would choose Lyric, instead,” she says. “She ought to be unique, don’t you think, Draco?”

“I think it’s still too soon to be considering names.” Malfoy sits on a stool, hands clasped in his lap as if he needs to hold them down, lest he dig into the potions with the rest of them. “I’ve only just found out she’s a girl. I’ll need to decide if she’ll have a traditional Black name.” He speaks slowly, as if bringing the words out to so many people is still difficult. Harry offers an encouraging smile, and Malfoy quirks one corner of his mouth.

“We need to ensure that there is no way that the other father could have any claim over her.” Pansy has a scroll in front of her where she makes notes in a delicate, cramped script. “I’ll owl my father, Draco, arrange for his services. You need a proper solicitor.”

“They’ll invoke the law of impure birth,” Malfoy says mildly. “I’m aware of the situation, Pansy.”

She snorts, the sound dark and harsh. “Draco, there are specific allowances for involuntary impurity. Given that your loss of virginity is not your choice, you should not suffer the consequences. Once we can prove the rape,” she sighs at Harry’s flinch. “We are using technical terms, Potter. If we are to take any form of legal action for Draco’s safety, and the safety of his daughter, we must be specific. The pureblood laws are very specific regarding heritage within and outside of the bonds of marriage. There is a reason why magical contraception is so good; no one wishes to be caught. If we can prove the parentage of this child, and that it was unwillingly conceived, the man who fathered it will suffer the consequences.”

“Men,” Malfoy responds quietly. “Pomfrey is certain that there was more than one involved.”

“Luna, take a look at this.” Ernie slides his book towards Luna, who reciprocates by offering one of her own. Ernie waves away the offered book, pointing to the page now lying between them. “Rosemary. Not normally used in memory spells, but here it is a critical ingredient. And one recommended use is that the potion can be reduced to a powdered state and added to food.”

“Draco, do you still walk often after dinner?” Pansy asks.

“Not always, but often.” Malfoy’s hand settles against his abdomen, fingers spread. “It clears my mind, helps me sleep.”

“Do you enjoy rosemary?” Luna blinks, then continues reading under her breath. A moment later she says quietly, “If you were to lose your mind upon a walk, it is possible that you might be clouded several hours after a meal. If they know your habits, it would be easy to find you.”

“And take advantage of you.” Harry finds Malfoy’s fingers in his again, tangled and holding on tight. “I don’t think it would help us to recreate the potion,” Harry says. “But is there anything there about how to undo the effects of the potion?”

“I think we’ll need to create our own solution, and I doubt this is the exact potion that was used.” Ernie is intent on the book, reading the pages repeatedly. “This potion wears off after a few hours, but the one that affected Draco is permanent. Someone adapted it.”

“A seventh year or an eighth year.” Pansy continues with her careful notes, transcribing into a fresh scroll. “No one else would have the ability to adapt a potion like that.

“Unless they were a prodigy.” Malfoy glances at Harry. “There are those who seem to suddenly have great leaps of knowledge, at times.”

It doesn’t take much to know what Malfoy is remembering. “That was a book, with Snape’s notes,” Harry admits. “But you are correct; there are people who have innate talent with potions or charms. Like Snape did. And it could be any of our classmates who happen to be good with either of those subjects.”

“Or dark arts,” Luna says mildly. “I do think there is something dark about this potion. We need vervain.”

“What will vervain do?” Malfoy’s free hand presses against his curved belly. “And will it hurt the child?”

Luna’s blink makes it obvious that she forgot that there was an infant involved. “Oh. That might not be good, you’re right. Perhaps someone else could drink it, and use its strength to help break through the clouds with legilimency.”

Malfoy’s fingers sleep free of Harry’s hand. He pushes his seat back, stands up. “I appreciate your help, but I do not believe it will be necessary.” His voice is low and a little remote. “I will not endanger this child, and when I do recover these memories, they are not something I wish to share with another. Thus, it must wait.”

“Whoever it is could be gone after this year,” Pansy says sharply. “Draco, you can’t let them get away with it simply because you don’t want someone inside your head. We’ve known each other since we were children. What is it that you think I am going to see?”

There is a chill in the air as Malfoy takes another step back, his expression entirely closed off. When he turns, his robes snap about his ankles, and Harry is reminded of the way Lucius moves, as if the world could not impact him at all. “That is enough,” Malfoy sneers. “If that is the only way to solve this, then it will remain unsolved. I appreciate your willingness to help, my dear old friend, but I prefer my privacy. So thank you, I will go my own way and we can be done.”

The door slams behind him on the way out with a resounding thunk; Harry tries not to jump at the sound, his hands clenched.

“Well, that went well,” Luna says cheerily. “I’m certain he’ll come round if we give him time, and while he’s thinking, we can figure out the antidote. Harry, you’re not allergic to vervain or rosemary, are you?”

“I’m not allergic to anything,” Harry says. All three of them are looking at him: Luna is smiling, while Ernie just stares, and Pansy has a speculative smirk. “You can’t think Malfoy’s going to let me inside his—”

“We all call him Draco, you know.” Pansy dots an I, crosses a T with a flourish before setting down her quill. “You could do the same.”

Harry could, but it wouldn’t feel right. “If it ever comes to it, I will. But not now. Not yet.” He worries at his lower lip, looks between the table filled with books and the door. Pansy snorts.

“Here.” She folds the letter and addresses it quickly. “Bring this to the owlery and do whatever it is you feel you need to do. We do not need your help here.”

“We’ll progress further without your worry clouding the issues,” Luna says mildly. “I promise, we shall notify you as soon as we are ready.”

It’s not that Harry’s shite at Potions, but rather that he has absolutely no focus at this time. Not with Malfoy in a snit and probably elsewhere in the castle, not with something so important at stake. He hesitates for the sake of looking like he wants to offer input, like he has something useful to give to them to help here. But he knows he doesn’t, and they know it as well.

Luna and Ernie bend their heads back to the problem at hand, with whispered discussion. Pansy waves her fingertips, motioning at the door. “Go,” she whispers, and this time Harry listens and leaves.

#

On the morning of the 23rd, the entirety of Hogwarts’ remaining student population heads to Hogsmeade. Even the first years are on the trip, a small group of four children who look entirely too tiny to Harry’s jaded eyes. They are closely chaperoned by Hagrid and Professor Sprout, and Harry has to do his best not to laugh at the unlikely pairing.

Malfoy walks with the group of eighth year students, just slightly apart from them as if he both joins them and avoids them. Luna chatters cheerily, her hand in Pansy’s, her head tilted back as she interrupts herself randomly to try to capture snowflakes on her tongue. She arranges everything, from where they will shop, how they will pair off, and when to meet for lunch. “We all need some time alone to shop for each other,” she says. “So we’ll do that first, then we can enjoy our afternoon together.”

Harry has too much on his mind to enjoy shopping, but he manages to find gifts for Ernie, Luna, and Pansy easily. Malfoy defies him, however, nothing seeming to be the perfect gift. What do you buy for the man you fancy, who barely tolerates you in return, and who’s up the duff from an unknown abuser? It’s bloody well impossible, and not the sort of moment where you simply buy a decent tie.

He has a dim memory of seeing Malfoy writing in an unfamiliar book, so Harry veers into the stationery shop. He finds a fountain pen and ink in Slytherin colours, then a book with lined pages. Another book catches his eye and he pauses to look at it, sifting through the pages. It is surrounded by bright pink and blue books, cheerfully covered in images of infants, but this one is a darkly tailored print of deep green and burgundy.

“Is your wife pregnant?” The salesgirl holds up one of the other books, brightly labeled Our Baby’s First Year. “This is our most popular design. It has plenty of space for pictures, as well as places to write to your child so that they can read it later on. The bright colors are appealing, and I haven’t met a woman yet who doesn’t love it.”

“He’s a bloke.” Harry’s voice catches on the words and he goes a brilliant red as he realizes what he’s said. “I mean, we’re not together. He’s a mate of mine, and I don’t think he’d like something bright and pink. This one would be better for him.” He rifles through the pages again, seeing the place for the name, a star chart, significant signs from the birth. It seems different from the others, and he can see the influences from all areas of magic within it. It makes him think of Malfoy, yes, but also Luna, and a little bit of Gryffindor, and definitely Pansy’s fashion sense and practicality. The steadfast influence of Hufflepuff is there as well, and that seems right to him.

He reaches for another pen that matches the book, and a bottle of ink that changes colour depending on the mood of the author, and places it all on the counter. “These, please.”

He has her separate the journal and first pen into one bag, placing the latter set into another bag so he can have Ernie, Pansy, and Luna all fill out pages before the baby is born. He makes one more stop to buy a small stuffed dragon as his own gift for the infant’s first Christmas, then joins the others for lunch.

There are two tables, one filled with brightly coloured bags, while Pansy and Luna sit at the next, sharing a butterbeer. Luna leans in to kiss Pansy, leaving a trace of foam on her lips, and Ernie flushes and looks away as if to give them privacy. Harry looks around, but he can’t see Malfoy anywhere.

“He’s late,” Pansy says with a soft snort. “Get used to it. He never arrives anywhere on time.”

“I saw him in Quality Quidditch Supplies.” Luna smiles, one hand rising in the air. “I hope he doesn’t buy a snitch mobile. I already have one for him.”

“That’s what I was going to ask about.” Harry drops his bags with the rest and takes a seat. “I bought something for him and the baby. Are you going to?”

“Three dresses, two blankets, a crib, and a spa certificate for Draco to use after the baby is born.” Pansy examines his nails. “You didn’t think I wouldn’t, did you?”

Ernie opens his mouth, closes it again. “I didn’t actually think about it. I’ll get something this afternoon. Do you think it’s appropriate, given how it came about?”

“What does the start matter?” Luna asks. “It’s all about the future, Ernie, and of course gifts will help him make the future bright.”

Harry couldn’t agree more, and he leans in, motioning them all to gather close as he outlines his plans for Christmas morning. He wants the first part of the morning to be about them, as friends, but he wants a second tree later in the day, one for the baby and her father. He just hopes it doesn’t backfire and send Malfoy even further into his silence.

#

Christmas morning is cold and chaotic, with a huge breakfast served in the Great Hall, and all the students opening gifts at once. Malfoy sits surrounded by a small pile of boxes, not even noticing when Harry swoops in to steal one awkwardly wrapped package away. He recognizes the plain brown paper—he has one just like it at his own table—and he suspects this is something Malfoy ought to open in the privacy of their dorm. He’ll have time, later.

The gifts range from whimsical (new bottle cap earrings for Luna from her father, and a delicate dreamcatcher from Pansy) to expensive (a telescope and microscope for Ernie, and jewelry for Pansy). Harry is pleased with the few things he receives by owl post, including a new, warm Weasley jumper that he dons immediately.

He sets aside his gifts to watch Malfoy open his instead, amused by the wry twist of Malfoy’s smile as he turns the small box from Luna over and over in his hands, and listens to her explanation that it carries worries, so that he doesn’t have to. She touches the side of his head, then draws the tip of her wand from his head to the box. It almost seems to Harry as if Malfoy eases after that, so maybe it does work. He doesn’t always understand Luna, but he’d trust her with his life.

The other students drift off, the youngest ones disappearing first, the older ones following later with a plan to head out to the pitch for a holiday pick up game. The eighth year students and Luna gather up their things more slowly, moving as a group back to the dormitory.

Luna skips ahead, darting in through the door and back out again to hold it for the others, beaming brightly at them. Harry can see the tree twinkling with fairy lights, and packages beneath it, everything set out by the house elves while they were at breakfast. “Father Christmas has been here,” she cheers, clapping her hands, and Pansy grabs her and swings her around, gathering her in close for a kiss.

“Do you believe in Father Christmas as one of your mythical beasts?” Malfoy asks, and Luna laughs.

“Of course not. It’s a turn of phrase; I know he’s not real. We did this for you, Draco. For you and your daughter.” She takes both his hands, tugs gently until he follows, eyes wide. He sits when she nudges him into place on the sofa, and watches her gather gifts from beneath the tree.

“They’re from us, for you and your little one,” she says.

“Lyra,” Malfoy whispers. “I’ve only just decided, as of last night. Her name is Lyra.”

“If you’ve decided, then I hope Granger didn’t send baby name books,” Pansy says dryly. “There’s nothing like a useless gift to bring the mood down.”

“Granger?” Malfoy’s gaze darts to the tree and back to the others. “Why would she…?”

“You have gifts from those who support you,” Harry says, trying to keep his voice calm and gentle. He sets the oddly-shaped package he’d rescued earlier in Malfoy’s lap. “There are more than you’d realize.”

Malfoy carefully slits the Spellotape and opens the package, the bright knit fabric spilling into his lap. Harry suspects it is supposed to be Slytherin colours, but the green is too bright, and the silver changed to a darker grey. It’s a striking combination, with the D and other patterning in the grey, set into the green of the jumper. Another smaller one, perfectly matching, is there as well. Malfoy picks them both up, and there is a shine at the corners of his eyes.

“Ooh, they match, how lovely.” Luna sits on the arm of the sofa next to him, leaning over to pet the jumpers. “And so soft, too.”

“Absolutely handmade and provincial,” Pansy says, and Harry isn’t sure if it’s an insult or a compliment. Likely both, he suspects, knowing that nothing will be perfectly or easily healed between the Weasleys and the high society purebloods, but it is at least a start.

“Molly knits for her family every year,” Harry says quietly. Malfoy gives him a startled look, and Harry takes the risk of touching his hand, squeezing lightly. “We don’t actually have a say in who she considers family, so you might as well just relax and enjoy it.”

Malfoy sniffs loudly, but the tears dripping down his cheeks bely the sneering tone as he says, “I will never be ginger enough to be a Weasley.” He holds his hands out, motioning at the tree. “Another. Let’s get this over with.”

Despite the dry words and haughty expression, Malfoy has to stop several times to wipe tears from his eyes with a monogrammed silk handkerchief. He can’t even pretend to be unaffected when he finds the hand-carved bassinet from his parents that perfectly matches the wood of the crib Pansy selected. By the time he opens the book and fountain pen from Harry, his eyes shine and his cheeks are red, and he dashes the tears away with one hand.

Malfoy reaches for the ink and fills the pen, then puts it to paper to inscribe Lyra H. Malfoy in the space for her name. His fingers drift across the pages where it is inscribed from Pansy, Luna, Ernie, and of course, Harry. When he huffs softly, Harry can hear the tightness in his chest, and he slides just a bit closer, his hand on Malfoy’s knee, letting Malfoy lean into him.

“This isn’t…” Malfoy whispers. “I don’t deserve this. I thought this year… I just wanted to finish the year. I wanted to finish Hogwarts, prove I could do it, then I was going to disappear. No one needed me. No one wanted me. Now… you’ve all… I don’t understand. I don’t know why, but I have you, and I have Lyra. And she most definitely needs me.”

“You’ve always had me, you daft idiot.” Pansy nudges his knee. “You just couldn’t look outside your dark cloud of doom to see.”

“And you brought me a Gryffindor, a Ravenclaw, and a Hufflepuff for Christmas. How kind,” Malfoy says dryly.

“Don’t forget your ghosts,” Luna says. “Or is it that you are their wizard? Either way.” She shrugs. “There’s still one more gift, Draco.”

Luna gestures, and Ernie produces a small flask. When Malfoy reaches for it, Ernie holds it back and shakes his head. “You can’t,” Ernie says. “Not without risking your daughter. But when you’re ready, any of us could.”

“I see.” Malfoy closes the book and sets it aside, then touches Harry’s knee. “If you could help carry things up to the room, Potter, I’d like to discuss the plans for the ruined wing with you. So we can have something to show McGonagall before the holiday is over.”

They’ve barely discussed the idea since Harry mentioned it in passing at dinner, telling the others about McGonagall’s offer. He doesn’t know what to think of the idea that Malfoy is interested now, but he simply nods and goes along with he plan, helping gather things up and floating them along behind to get them to the room while he carries the flask carefully in his hand.

Once inside, the things for Lyra are stored off to one side, and Malfoy strips off his shirt and pulls on the Weasley jumper, smoothing it over his swollen belly. He holds the smaller one for Lyra for a moment, then adds it to the pile of baby things.

“I’m ready,” Malfoy says.

“For what?”

Malfoy blinks twice, sits slowly on the bed and pats the space next to him. “To let you in, Potter. Take the potion, break the spell. I’m ready to know who did this to me.”

#

The potion tastes terrible, like a mix of rosewater and baked chicken, and Harry makes a mental note to talk to Luna about the formula she used and suggest changes if she ever needs to make it again. When the room starts spinning a moment later, he regrets having drunk it so quickly and falls back into the space Malfoy makes for him on the bed. Malfoy reaches for him, and they end up tangled together, Harry’s gaze locked on Malfoy’s—the one thing in the room that doesn’t seem to be moving around him—holding onto him for dear life. They lie there for a long moment; when Harry falls into Malfoy’s mind, he falls into darkness.

Harry is all too familiar with nightmares, the way they jump around like bits of bright scenery within the darkness. He feels the tension in Malfoy’s body when the laughter starts, when it slithers under his skin and leaves him feeling like he wants to scream. Each laugh comes with a grab, a sharp pain in his body, holding him still, pushing him down.

Malfoy’s pulse is quick, almost too quick beneath Harry’s hand on his skin, and he tries to whisper soothing words, but he can’t relax himself. Not when the terror is rising, the men without faces pushing him down and opening him up, pushing into him roughly. Harry is being sucked into the clouded thoughts that Malfoy has left, and he needs to get past this, move beyond and find the memories hidden within Malfoy’s mind.

“We’re not going to like this,” he murmurs, or he thinks he does. He presses lips to Malfoy’s shoulder, closes his eyes against the barrage of memory, and he starts slashing at the spiderwebs that hold them in place. He rips into the memories with no delicate touch, shredding the shroud around them and revealing the horrific scene.

Zacharias Smith.

Theodore Nott.

That’s all Harry has to see before he is screaming for Malfoy to wake up. Before he yells Draco over and over and drags him out of the nightmare, leaving them clinging to each other on the bed, fresh tears rolling down their cheeks.

“I remember it all,” Draco whispers. “I remember everything.”

“You’re not alone,” Harry reminds him, one hand against his cheek, lips warm against the chill of Draco’s skin. “I remember too, and I promise, you are not alone. We won’t let it ever happen again.”

#

The conversation with McGonagall goes quickly, while the one back in the dorm with their friends is fraught with more tears and no idea what will happen next.

“McGonagall will be contacting the authorities.” Harry has Draco’s hand held between both of his, his thumb idly stroking along his skin. He can feel the shivers still, and nudges Draco with his knee, encouraging him to move closer for comfort. “They are both of age, so they can be prosecuted as adults.”

“And they will be prosecuted.” Draco’s voice sounds dead, flat and dull with exhaustion. “Pansy, I’ll be needing representation shortly, and I shall need a review of what can be offered as evidence. McGonagall and Pomfrey are searching for the potion now. I suspect Nott made it; it fits with Theodore’s love of the arcane and the dark. Smith was the one who administered it—I remember him being so kind and bringing me meals when I chose to eat alone. Those first few times he would wait with me, then bring Nott with him once I was pliable.”

“Nott’s straight,” Ernie protests, confused.

“Rape isn’t about sexuality,” Pansy tells him. “It’s about power. And during the war, Draco had power over others. They sought to take that power back.”

Draco inhales, lets it out with a shuddering breath. “And destroy me in the process.”

“Are you going to let them destroy you, Draco?” Luna leans forward, pinning some small white flower on Draco’s collar. “I don’t think you ought to.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes,” she insists. “It is. You still have everything, and they have nothing. Do you choose us, or do you choose despair?” Luna tilts her head, considering. “There are also charms that help with scaring the Fridgets away. You do have an awful lot of those, and you might find it quite freeing if we were to chase them off. It would lighten your mood remarkably.”

His expression is serious as he regards her, nods at her words. “I would appreciate it if you could help me with that,” Draco says quietly, and Luna beams and promises to do so before the end of the holiday.

Harry itches to move. He wants to see Draco get out from inside his head and the hell that remembering is putting him into. He wants to help. “Come walk with me,” he asks, trying to keep it from sounding like an order. “We never finished talking about the wing.”

Draco tilts his head back. “That was a ruse.”

“It wasn’t for me.” Harry stands and offers his hand, palm up. “I want to talk to you about the ruins. Come walk with me, Draco.”

One eyebrow arches at the sound of his name, and Pansy snorts softly, the sound swallowed by a kiss from Luna. Harry ignores them all, wiggling his fingers and waiting for Draco to take his hand so he can help him up and tug him towards the door.

“We won’t wait up.” Ernie’s voice is so low that Harry might not have heard him, if it weren’t for Luna’s giggle to draw attention to the words. Draco’s ears go bright red as they duck out of the common room and into the hallway.

Harry doesn’t bother to let go of Draco’s hand, even when they are flanked by Colin and Lavender while they move through the school. “I have a proposal,” Harry tells him.

“I love proposals!” Lavender claps her hands, floats in front of them, grinning. “Did you get him a ring?”

“Not that sort of proposal.” Harry sighs, tries to ignore the distraction of Lavender patting him on the head and saying that they’ll get there eventually, and Colin’s dry chuckle. “McGonagall said that if I could find someone willing to create the plans for a renovation of the ruined wing, she’d give me permission to build it. And there’s no one who is as familiar with the ghosts of that wing—or with what we want to erase and remember, all at once—than you, Draco.”

“You keep calling me that.”

“I think we’ve gone beyond Potter and Malfoy,” Harry retorts. “I’d like permission to be familiar.”

Draco raises their linked hand. “Exactly how familiar do you plan to be?”

“As familiar as you’d like, and as distant as you’d like.” Harry tries to keep his voice even, to answer as plainly as Draco has asked. What he wants is more. Now that he sees it, he wants, but he doesn’t want to hurt Draco. “I told you, you’re not alone, not anymore. You’ve got me for as long as you want me, however you want me. All I need is for you to talk to me, Draco. Tell me if I’m pushing too hard, or if you want more. Tell me to get lost, or to stick around, and I need you to mean it. I’m stubborn, yes, but if you really want me gone, you have to tell me that it isn’t just you running away. If you don’t, I’m sticking around for the long haul. Friends or more, you’re stuck with me.”

Lavender sighs. “Now that was a beautiful proposal. Say yes, Draco.”

“Shut up, Brown.”

Colin drags Lavender away, his hand over her ghostly mouth. Harry can see the protest in her expression, but he can’t look at it now, can’t look away from the way Draco is staring at their linked hands, thumb sliding across Harry’s skin.

“I have a daughter,” Draco says. “Rather, I will, in just a few months.”

“I know.”

Draco meets his eyes. “I was a Death Eater, and I am considered a ruined pureblood in more ways than one.”

Harry makes a noise. “That doesn’t matter to me. Do you really think I’d be interested in you for purity reasons?”

“No, but it has to be said.” Draco lowers their hands, starts walking again. “Does this mean we’d stay here, after we’ve passed our NEWTs, and rebuild a part of Hogwarts?”

“Supervising construction would give us plenty of time to care for Lyra, and for you to take your NEWTs again if she comes earlier than expected and interferes,” Harry says. His heart is racing, his palms sweaty as he tries to see where Draco is going with this. “Does that mean yes?”

“It does.” The words are calm and definite, accompanied by a small smile.

Harry’s breath lets out with a whoosh, relaxing for a moment before he realizes that he’s missing an important point. “Wait. Yes to which? The construction? Me? Taking NEWTs again?”

“All of it, you formerly speccy git.” Draco stops again, taps Harry on the bridge of the nose. “The construction is definite. The NEWTs depend on when Lyra chooses to enter the world. And you… you are on trial. For the moment I do not find you entirely odious, and perhaps even enjoy your company.”

“In other words, you love me.” Harry grins, heart light as he teases Draco. He laughs when Draco rolls his eyes.

“Hardly.” Draco’s eyes go wide and he grabs Harry’s hand, presses it against the gentle rounding of his belly. “Can you feel that?”

There’s nothing other than a hard stomach, the rounding showing him where Draco carries the child. But from the sudden twitch from Draco, he is definitely feeling something. Harry feels the loss as he shakes his head. “I don’t.”

“It’s her.” Draco whispers, expression full of wonder. “I feel her, Harry. She’s moving.”

“Making her opinion known. At least one Malfoy loves me.” Harry tries to keep the tone light, even though his heart is full of thoughts of family and future and wanting to grab on and keep hold of this unexpected gift. Draco’s laughter gives him joy, and this time when they link hands it is quiet and calm, not full of pain.

Draco squeezes his hand. “She’s saying hello,” he says with a smile. “She’s happy.” He hesitates a moment, then offers quietly. “I’m happy, too.”

“Good,” Harry says. He slides closer, puts an arm around Draco’s shoulder and risks a kiss to his cheek while Lavender chortles happily in the background. “C’mon, Draco. Let’s be happy together.”






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