Archive of Our Own

“She’s my whole world,” the man wept. “I miss her so much. I have to get her back.”

Harry exchanged a look with Ron and saw his own anguish mirrored in his friend’s eyes. Hesitantly, Ron reached out and patted the crying man on the back.

“We’ll do our best,” he said soothingly. “I have a daughter of my own, just turned five. I know what you’re going through.”

Harry nodded as the man looked up at them tearfully. “We’ll get her back for you,” he said firmly. “That’s a promise.”

Ron shot him another look, this one full of warning, but Harry knew it was coming so he didn’t make eye contact. Instead, he focused on the man before them.

Miles Hathaway: British expat, Squib, and the father of a missing six-year-old girl. A six-year-old girl who had apparently been kidnapped by none other than Draco Malfoy.

--

“Why do you always promise the parents that we’ll find their missing kids?” Ron fumed a few minutes later as they walked down the hall. “This is an old case! She’s been gone for a year, the trail’s gone cold, we’ll be lucky to find her corpse, and then Hathaway is going to be beating down our door because you promised him something and Robards is going to be pissed at you. Again.”

Harry shrugged, feeling defensive. “I dunno,” he said grimly. “Kids should be with their parents. Isn’t a little bit of hope worth something?”

Ron shot him a look that was rather too full of understanding for Harry’s liking, then reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling them both to a stop in the hallway outside the main Auror offices.

“Hey,” he said, and waited until Harry looked at him to continue. “I know missing children cases are hard for you, and this one’s going to be even harder. I mean –” he gestured helplessly. “It’s fucking Malfoy, isn’t it? The git disappears for six years and then pops back up, a kidnapper.”

“Once a Death Eater, always evil,” Harry muttered, and Ron chuckled darkly.

“I’m just saying,” he said, meeting Harry’s eyes again. “We can always give this one to someone else. Just say the word and I’ll back you up.”

Harry nodded sudden gratitude filling his throat and making it difficult to speak. Ron seemed to know what he wanted to say, though, and nodded back, clapping Harry’s shoulder.

“Let’s go find us a Death Eater,” he said quietly, and Harry clenched his fists and nodded again.

--

Lucius had died a few months after the Battle of Hogwarts. Suicide, people said, but Harry hadn’t been present enough at that point to feel anything one way or the other about that. Draco and Narcissa had stood trial, photographed in the chained chairs and plastered across the front of the Daily Prophet. Harry had looked at the two blond heads bowed before the Wizengamot and had thrown the paper in the bin. Those first few months after the battle, anything having to do with the war made him want to vomit. Later, Hermione told him that both surviving Malfoys had been exiled from Great Britain and forbidden from using magic. Harry had nodded and gone back to writing a Charms essay.

He had returned to Hogwarts with Ron and Hermione for their eighth year, which was equal parts studying for their NEWTS, rebuilding the portions of Hogwarts that were still damaged from the Battle, and trying to remember how to be a normal teenager. He and Ginny had broken up soon after returning to school. It had stung a bit, but Harry gave Ginny credit for knowing both of them well enough to know that they had outgrown each other. He moped for several months before ending up in a deserted hallway with Michael Corner after a particularly raucous eighth-year party. The next morning, after some of the most fulfilling sex of his life, Harry had felt nothing but relieved. There was so much more for both him and Ginny to see and learn. They had renewed their friendship over the next few months, and she was still one of his closest friends.

He had graduated. He had moved into Grimmauld Place and started fixing it up. He and Ron had enrolled in Auror training, just like they’d planned to for years, and Hermione had enrolled in post-graduate courses in magical policy. He visited Teddy frequently and got to know Andromeda as a sharp, sarcastic, and incredibly loving person whom Teddy adored and who made the best banana bread Harry had ever had. And in all that time, he hadn’t thought about Draco Malfoy once.

He was making up for it now. As he and Ron began investigations into the Viola Hathaway missing child case, Harry found himself thinking about Malfoy quite a bit: where he could possibly be, what he had been doing for the past six years, why he had kidnapped this girl. What he was like now.

Probably just like he was at seventeen, but worse, Harry reflected, looking over the notes from their interview with Miles. And now a kidnapper.

The details were sporadic, with lots of missing pieces. Miles had apparently met Narcissa in Madrid about a year after the way. He hadn’t recognized her, having left England when he was young and mostly avoided news of the war. “She introduced herself as Helena Black,” he said dreamily. “Such a beautiful woman, with such sad eyes.” She had asked him for help finding her son a job, and he had gotten Draco a job at a factory near the city. He and Narcissa had fallen in love (here, Ron and Harry had exchanged furtive, disbelieving glances. Personally, Harry doubted Narcissa had fallen in love with anyone after Lucius, but marrying their benefactor so as to continue being supported certainly seemed like something she would do), and they had been blessed with a baby girl: Viola. “It was a miracle!” Miles had gushed. “My Helena was no spring chicken, but our love was stronger than anything!”

But Narcissa had died in childbirth, and Miles had been left with a newborn child and Draco, who had apparently become more and more difficult to live with after his mother died. “He would go into his room for days at a time and we wouldn’t see him at all,” Miles recounted. “Then, suddenly, he would burst out, shouting that I was ruining his life, and try to steal my car keys or something. Viola hated him, always crying when he was around, trying to get away. Of course, he hated her too – seemed like he felt she had killed his mother. And that was even before his drinking problem began to really show itself.”

Draco – or, Oliver, as Miles had apparently known him – had continually threatened to leave, but Miles hadn’t thought he ever would, until one day he had woken up to a completely empty house. No Draco. No Viola.

“Why didn’t you file a missing person’s report at the time?” Ron had asked – reasonably, in Harry’s view, but Miles had looked at him as if he had suggested eating unicorn meat.

“I didn’t want Oliver to get in trouble! Sure, he was a tough kid to understand sometimes, but I had grown fond of the boy. And he did look so like his mother.” Miles had signed and dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief. “I thought he would bring her back. I kept trying to reach out to him to let him know I still loved him and nothing bad would happen to him, but he never responded. Finally, I’d had enough, went to the authorities in Madrid. They told me that he’s actually a war criminal, and that’s when you two got involved. My Viola! Kidnapped by a Death Eater!” And he had broken down crying again. They hadn’t been able to get anything else useful out of him.

In fact, they’d been able to get very little else at all. Malfoy still had a very sensitive version of the Trace on him, in case he ever tried to break the terms of his sentence and use magic, but it had never been activated. Ron and Harry partnered up with Spanish aurors to interview Miles’s neighbors and acquaintances, but no one had heard from “Oliver” in a year, and no one had seen him after he left Miles’s house. They tried using a scent hound, trained and magically enhanced to be able to follow any scent for miles, but the trail was so cold that the poor beast gave up just a few blocks from Miles’s apartment building, whimpering and confused.

“That’s it, then,” Ron sighed, flopping down on a chair by Harry’s desk several weeks later. “The last lead. Nothing.”

Harry pushed back from the desk and rubbed his eyes wearily. It was a strange, unsettling feeling, knowing that Malfoy was up to something but having no idea where he was. It made Harry miss Hogwarts. Back then, Malfoy had always been just across the Great Hall, or at least visible on the Marauder’s Map.

He was just about to say something to that effect when a paper airplane memo crash-landed on the desk in front of him, sending his other papers and files flying.

“Shit!” Ron exclaimed, reeling back. “These new interns really need to learn how to temper their message spells.”

“It’s not an intern,” Harry said, reading the memo and feeling something like excitement blossom in his gut. “Ron – Ron!” He quickly passed the other man the piece of paper, his hands actually shaking.

“What?” Ron asked, taking the paper from him. He read it, and Harry watched the other man’s eyes widen. “Malfoy’s Trace?”

“It’s been activated,” Harry said with grim joy. “The bastard finally broke down and used magic. Let’s get him.”

--

The emergency portkey deposited them on a hillside overlooking a vast swath of Spanish countryside. Madrid was visible on the horizon as a hazy collection of tall buildings, but the land that swept away from their feet was rolling and open. About half a mile away, a small, slightly derelict farmhouse nestled between a field of hay and a large garden. Two thin horses grazed in a pasture that extended along the front of a wooden barn set behind the house. There was no other movement.

“Ok,” Ron said, squinting against the late afternoon sun. “He must be in the house, unless he’s hiding in the fields somewhere.”

Harry was clutching his wand in his pocket and scanning the scene before for any signs of life. The only living things he saw were the horses, and a bird taking flight from the fields, spiraling upwards into the late summer air.

“Let’s go,” he said grimly, and they began walking.

Coming closer to the house, Harry saw that parts of it were even more dilapidated than it had appeared from the hillside, but other parts seemed brand new: a shining metal roof; a new coat of white paint. Flowers were blooming in pots on a dingy concrete stoop, and there were faded purple curtains in all the clear, clean windows. Ron nudged Harry and pointed to the wires connecting to a stand on the roof.

Muggle house, then, Harry thought, nodding back. He wondered what Malfoy had done to the Muggles who had been living here. Grimly, he put his hand in his pocket and gripped his wand tightly. The bastard won’t get away this time.

They approached the front door, watching for any signs of movement, but there were none. After a long moment, Ron shrugged and rang the doorbell. It echoed inside for a long moment.

Just when Harry was about to spell the door open and start blasting Expelliarmuses, the door popped open and a middle-aged woman with bright blue hair peered out at them.

“Hola, chicos,” she said brightly. “¿Cómo va?”

Harry was so surprised that he stepped quickly back and coughed. Ron did better: he laughed, loud and delighted, and put out a hand.

“Buenas tardes, señora,” he said slowly, over-enunciating each Spanish word. “Buscamos Oliver Hathaway. ¿Conoce a él?”

She cocked her head, her brow wrinkling. “No,” she said slowly, clearly. “Oliver Hathaway no vive aquí.”

Harry felt his stomach drop. They were too late. Malfoy must have guessed they would be coming and vacated the premises, or else he had never been here at all and the activated Trace had been a fluke. They would never find Viola, Miles would never get his daughter back. Harry cleared his throat and began to give a gruff apology, but the woman was still speaking.

“El único chico que vive aquí es Draco,” the woman continued. Harry’s eyes flew to her face and he heard Ron gasp.

“Draco is here? A - Aquí?” Ron was losing what little Spanish he had in his excitement, so Harry pointed to the ground at their feet, at the house.

“Draco Malfoy?”

“Sí, sí, Draco Malfoy!” the woman exclaimed happily. “¿Cómo le conocéis?

“Old friends – um, that is, from school – ah...” Ron trailed off, gesturing helplessly.

“Amigos,” Harry tried, wishing he had taken the time to learn a translation spell. When they had been working with Spanish aurors, they had done all the talking. “De...escuela?”

The woman nodded vigorous understanding. “Pues, entrad! Bienvenidos,” she continued, stepping back and ushering them into the farmhouse. With a bemused look at Ron, Harry followed her, with Ron close behind him.

Inside, the farmhouse had the air of an old house held together mostly with love and old photographs. Frames lined every wall, none of them moving. This woman was definitely a Muggle, then. Harry wondered if Draco had put some sort of spell on her, but there were no traces of magic in the house. Just several cats who ignored their entrance, and a delicious smell wafting from the kitchen.

“Soy Elena,” the woman informed them, ushering them towards a faded purple sofa. “Draco volverá muy pronto. Queréis algo de beber? Comer?”

“No, gracias,” Harry said, at the same time as Ron said: “Qué tienes?”

The woman – Elena – laughed and disappeared into the kitchen. She reappeared shortly with two glasses of water and a small plate of biscuits, which she set on the rickety coffee table by their knees.

“Para empezar,” she said, smiling and gesturing to the food. “Comemos más con Draco.”

Harry had many more questions – how long had Draco been living here? What was he doing here, in this Spanish farmhouse in the middle of nowhere? Had Elena ever seen a child named Viola? – but he had decidedly exhausted his limited supply of Spanish. Ron, too, seemed more intent on eating biscuits than in conversing further. They sat in companionable silence for several minutes, Elena bustling around the room tidying up and periodically popping into the kitchen to check whatever was cooking. She set a copy of that day’s newspaper on the arm of the sofa by Harry’s hand, indicating with hand gestures and smiles that he could read it if he wanted to. Obligingly, he picked it up and scanned the incomprehensible Spanish, to Ron’s great amusement.

Harry was just starting to wonder how much longer they would have to wait when the sound of a car driving down the dirt road came through the windows. He and Ron exchanged a look and stood up as the sound got closer, then stopped. The distinct sounds of two car doors opening and closing sounded next, then the high, excited voice of a child and the low, amused tones of a man.

Malfoy.

He sounded different in Spanish and slightly deeper, rougher, but it was unmistakably Malfoy’s voice. And the child – could it be –?

“Viola, cariño!” came Elena’s voice from the kitchen. Harry realized there must be a side door that led directly from the end of the driveway to the kitchen. “Ven por acá, que estás sucia –”

He made as if to head in that direction, but Ron stopped him with a hand on his arm and a small shake of his head. They should let Malfoy get further into the house before they apprehended him. Harry grimaced but let himself be stopped

There was a wall and a closed door between the sitting room and kitchen, so he couldn’t see anything that was happening, but he could hear Elena clucking over the state of someone’s shoes. Then he heard the child’s voice again, complaining about something, and then the voice that was Malfoy’s but different, closer now, oddly compelling. He speaks Spanish so well, Harry found himself thinking, then caught himself. Of course he did – the bastard had been living in Madrid for years, making Miles’s life hell and then kidnapping his daughter. Harry shook himself mentally and grasped his wand more firmly in his pocket. This was a hardened criminal he was about to confront. He couldn’t get distracted with things like accents and voices.

“Hay gente aquí para ti, cariño,” Elena said, suddenly very close to the door, and then the door swung open and Malfoy stepped through it. He stopped, his eyes flicking back and forth between Harry and Ron, and Harry saw his hand spasm briefly, as if about to grasp a wand that was no longer there. His face was an unreadable mask.

“Mira, cariño! Viejos amigos!”

“Sí, Elena. Les veo,” Draco answered tightly. Then in English: “She doesn’t understand English, so you don’t have to Obliviate her. I’ll come quietly.”

“That’s very sweet, Malfoy, but it’s not just you we want,” drawled Ron. He drew the wand out of his pocket just enough to allow Malfoy to see it. “Where’s Viola?”

Malfoy’s eyes widened. “How — What do you want with Viola?”

“We want to return her to her father, you heartless bastard,” Harry snarled, pushing past Ron. “What have you done with her?”

Malfoy fell back a step, but his eyes narrowed in confusion. “Hold on — Miles sent you?”

“Yes,” Harry shot back. “He’s worried sick about his daughter, and if you don’t give her to us right the fuck now —”

“Tenéis hambre, claro,” interjected Elena firmly. “Traigo tortilla.” And she bustled out of the room.

Malfoy sneered down at Harry. “She doesn’t understand English but she’s not an idiot. You’re going to have to do better than that if you don’t want to put an end to this ridiculous story of old school chums.”

“Shut up,” Harry growled. “Bring out Viola, or I swear to God, Malfoy –”

“She’s not here,” interjected Malfoy quickly, raising both hands. “I actually haven’t seen her in months, couldn’t tell you where she is at this point —”

“That’s interesting,” Ron drawled. “Who’s that then?”

Harry followed Ron’s gaze to where a small girl – she looked to be about five years old – was peeking out of the kitchen, not wearing any shoes. Her eyes – pale gray, just like Malfoy’s – were wide and curious.

“Hola!” she said seriously, waving from the doorway. “Soy Viola, mucho gusto.”

Malfoy closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. His face was drawn and tight.

“Want to try that last bit again, Malfoy?” Ron asked, casually swinging his wand back and forth by his thigh. “Or are you ready to give up the girl and come with us quietly?”

Malfoy looked at the girl behind him. “Ayúdale a Elena, porfa, mi vida,” he said quietly.

The little girl disappeared back into the kitchen. Malfoy took a deep breath.

“Look,” he said through gritted teeth. “I don’t know what sob story that wanker told to get you here, but she is safer and happier with Elena than she ever was with him. He may be her father —”

“Ah! So you admit that you took Viola from her biological fathers home without his consent?” interjected Harry.

Malfoy pursed his lips, nodded once. “He —”

“And you admit that you’ve been keeping her here, without her father’s knowledge or permission?” asked Ron. Malfoy nodded again.

“But he—”

“Tortilla,” announced Elena firmly as she reentered the sitting room. “Sentaos, chicos. Queréis café?”

“Elena—" Malfoy began, his face a cold, pained mask, but Elena gave him a look and he closed his mouth and sat down at the table without another word.

“Tortilla primera,” she said, looking hard at Harry and Ron. “Hablamos después.”

--

The next hour was tense. Malfoy ate his slice of tortilla with a sort of distracted intensity that suggested he was thinking hard about something else. He wasn’t meeting Harry’s eyes, which infuriated Harry for some reason. Ron had slipped easily into the role of guest, and was conversing with Elena in broken Spanglish that had them both giggling. Viola, who had rejoined them when the tortilla appeared, alternated between looking back and forth between Malfoy and Harry and singing a little song to herself in Spanish as she took bites of tortilla.

After everyone had finished — a process which seemed to Harry to take an exorbitant amount of time — Elena cleared the plates and shooed Viola off to play in her room. She bent close to Malfoy’s ear where he was still sitting at the table and whispered something that Harry did not catch. Malfoy shook his head and squeezed her hand. She nodded once, then straightened.

“Estoy cansada, chicos,” she announced to the room at large. “Voy a mi cuarto.” Then she was gone, and the three of them were alone.

Harry surged out of his chair, wand pointed at Malfoy’s throat. He’s looking at me now, Harry thought with fierce satisfaction. The other man was indeed watching him, had not moved from his place at the table. Slowly, he raised both hands.

“I’m not going to fight you,” he said carefully. “Although I could. I know this place, this language, this land better than you. You would catch us in the end but I would make it very, very difficult for you. And you would have to obliviate a lot of Muggles. A lot of Muggles,” he repeated, staring into Harry’s eyes.

“Are you threatening me?” Harry growled, but Ron spoke up behind him.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” he asked quietly.

Malfoy’s eyes flickered to him, then came to rest back on Harry.

“I want you to understand why I took Viola away from him,” he said firmly. “I’ll give you my memories, you can look at them in a Pensieve. And you have to watch them before you decide whether or not she’s going back there. Do you understand?” His voice was cold, and Harry was suddenly struck by the fact that Malfoy was asking him if he, Harry, understood terms of surrender, even though Malfoy was the one with a wand pressed to his throat. Scorching annoyance flickered in his gut. Fucking Malfoy.

“I understand,” he replied slowly. “And if we agree to this, you and Viola will come with us quietly now, and you’ll tell Elena something that doesn’t get the Muggle police set on us.” It wasn’t a question, but Malfoy nodded.

“Yes,” he said.

“You do know that you’re under arrest, right?” Ron said. Malfoy looked at him.

“I understand,” he said. “How long do I have to get everything in order?”

--

They gave him until the end of the day. Malfoy disappeared into Elena’s room, and Harry could hear them speaking in rapid Spanish through the walls, although he couldn’t tell what they were saying. Malfoy reappeared and made several phone calls from the kitchen landline. Harry caught words like “me voy” and “ayudarle con el huerto” that made him think Malfoy was finding someone else to help Elena with her farm.

For their part, Harry and Ron mostly stayed in the sitting room.

“If you promised to watch the memories before sending her back to Miles, does that mean she has to stay with one of us tonight?” Ron asked, slightly dubious, a few minutes after Malfoy left. Harry bit his lip. He hadn’t thought this through.

As usual, said a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Ginny, but he pushed it down.

“I guess so,” he said slowly. “We can contact Miles first thing tomorrow, but she does need a place to stay the night. Can’t have her in one of the holding cells.”

Ron shook his head vehemently, then looked thoughtful. “I bet Hermione wouldn’t mind having a guest for a night,” he said. “She can share Rosie’s room.”

“That’s great, Ron,” Harry said gratefully. “I’ll explain it all to Robards if he tries to make trouble. And once we’ve watched the git’s memories, we’ll get her back to her dad right as rain.”

A little while later, Malfoy appeared in the doorway and told them he had to run to a neighbor’s house to borrow a suitcase for Viola. Harry nodded and stood, and Malfoy sighed.

“I suppose you’re coming with me?”

Harry nodded again. Malfoy rolled his eyes, put upon. “Come on then.”

They drove the pickup truck down winding country lanes, and Harry was reluctantly impressed by Malfoy’s easy handling of the car. His long legs shifted as he tapped the clutch or break, and he kept a pale hand resting on the manual gear shift, occasionally changing gears with a fluid grace. Harry caught himself staring and looked away quickly. Malfoy didn’t look at or speak to him the entire time.

They returned to the farmhouse to find Viola and Ron playing tag in the front yard. Ron waved an acknowledgement but didn’t stop chasing the shrieking little girl. Malfoy strode into the house, suitcase in hand, without a word, and Harry followed him, suddenly unsure where to be. He lingered in the sitting room, listening to Malfoy opening and closing drawers. A little while later, there was the sound of a shower running, and Harry guessed Malfoy had realized this might be his last chance for a shower for a while.

Finally, they were ready. Malfoy embraced Elena and she hugged him back tightly murmuring in his ear. Then she bent and swept Viola into her arms.

“Cuídate, cielo,” she murmured into Violas hair, and pressed two kisses to her cheeks. “Ay, mi amor. Estaré aquí si —"

“Lo sé, Elena,” Malfoy responded quickly. “Gracias por todo.”

Elena wiped her eyes and waved them off, having apparently accepted the story that Harry and Ron had arrived via bus from the closest town and were going to leave with Malfoy and Viola the same way. They walked for a little while, until the farmhouse had disappeared from view and they were along in the rolling grasslands. Then Harry held out the empty soda bottle that was their portkey.

“I’m about to activate it, so everyone put your hands on it.”

He watched as Malfoy gently prompted Viola to touch the bottle. Her hand looked so tiny next to his long fingers. It was all Harry could do not to grab her and Apparate to Miles’s piso, just a few miles away in Madrid, but he had made a promise. And I’m not a Death Eater, so I keep my promises, he thought bitterly to himself as he activated the portkey and pulled them all into darkness.

--

When they landed a moment later in the Ministry of Magic, Viola gasped and sat down hard. Then she looked up at Malfoy and started to laugh, talking so quickly in Spanish that Harry couldn’t catch a word. Malfoy laughed softly in response, and Harry suddenly realized he’d never heard Malfoy laugh without malice before. It was almost nice, if anything Malfoy did could be nice.

He sobered quickly when he noticed Harry watching him, but didn’t offer a translation. Harry felt his irritation build.

“You’re coming with me,” he said shortly. “To the cells,” he added, lest there be any confusion. “Viola will stay the night with Ron and Hermione.”

Malfoy just nodded, then knelt quickly down until he was eye to eye with Viola.

“You’re going with Mr. Weasley,” he said firmly in English. “You’re going to get to make some new friends tonight, and I know you’ll be good and polite and strong. Yes?”

Viola nodded, suddenly sober. “Are you coming?” She asked in perfect English. Harry hadn’t realized she spoke English that well.

Malfoy shook his head. “I have to stay here for a while,” he said. “Mr. Potter needs my help on a case.” Harry snorted but Malfoy didn’t look up. “I’ll be thinking of you, though, and loving you. You know.” It wasn’t a question. Viola nodded. Leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him, buried her face in his neck. Stockholm syndrome, Harry thought with a twist in his gut. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy, though, as he watched her hold back tears and saw how gently Malfoy held her.

“Come back soon,” she said quietly, and Malfoy took a deep breath in, blinked twice rapidly.

“I love you,” he replied, and they pulled gently apart. Ron held out his hand and Viola took it. He picked up her small suitcase with the other hand and nodded at Harry. “All right?”

Harry nodded back, and Ron and Viola walked away, making their way to the exit from which they could apparate. Viola looked back once and Malfoy blew her a kiss. Harry felt a lump form in his throat.

Malfoy turned to Harry. “Well Potter, let’s get on with it,” he said irritably. “Or is my punishment to stand here all night next to your labored mouth breathing?”

Harry felt anything remotely like sympathy for Malfoy abruptly fall away, and he led him to the cells in stony silence.

There was no one else in any of the holding cells that night, and the basement of the Auror wing of the Ministry was silent. There wasn’t even an Auror on guard duty at the moment, but the spelled door only opened to a registered Auror’s spell signature, and there were surveillance spells webbed along the ceiling. It was cold and dark, shadows dancing at the edge of Harry’s lumos. The cell to which he led Malfoy was halfway down the hall. A narrow, hard cot stretched along one wall, and there was a toilet in the opposite corner. Other than that, the walls and floor were bare, spelled stone, making it impossible for prisoners to see or hear each other once within the cells.

Harry shoved Malfoy in with a little more force than was strictly necessary, and the barred cell door banged shut with a satisfying crash.

“Wait,” said Malfoy quickly as Harry was turning to leave. “The memories.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Can’t it wait until morning, Malfoy? Some of us worked all day.”

“You promised, Potter,” Malfoy said through gritted teeth. His eyes were wide and desperate. Harry relented.

“Oh, all right,” he said. “Let me get a vial.”

Harry considered not going back to the cell, making Malfoy wait all night, but he reasoned that if he got the memories tonight then he wouldn’t have to see Malfoy again the next morning and he could get on with the business of getting Viola back to her father with no further ado. Malfoy was still standing at the barred door when he returned. He stood motionless as Harry approached him, wand outstretched. The silvery filaments came quickly from his head, as if he were pushing them out, wrapping around Harry’s wand. He twined them gently into the vial and stoppered the cork.

“Now do you know how to get them into the Pensieve, or did Dumbledore always do the tricky bits for you?” asked Malfoy acidly.

“Oh, please remind me,” Harry shot back. “Do you pour them in? Or just smash them on the floor? I’m afraid Dumbledore didn’t get a chance to show me before someone killed him.”

Malfoy subsided with a stony glare, but Harry was just warming up.

“No, no, please Malfoy, teach me how to do magic! Otherwise I might just —” He mimed nearly dropping the vial and catching it at the last second. “Oops!”

Malfoy lurched forward, his face going pale. “You promised,” he hissed. “You promised to watch them before —"

“And how much is a promise to a Death Eater worth, hm?” Harry snapped. “I’d watch your tone with me, Malfoy, if you know what’s good for you.”

“One thing we both know, Potter,” Malfoy replied grimly. “Is that I will never watch my tone with you.”

But he stepped back from the bars and sat down on the cot, leaning his head back against the stone and closing his eyes.

--

Harry nearly did throw the memories against a wall on his way out. He also considered just going home and watching them when next he had the chance — probably in a few months, he thought savagely. If then.

But something made him pause on his way out, made him turn towards the office that held the Pensieve. For Viola’s sake, he told himself. And so that he could have evidence of Malfoy’s crimes.

Once he has made up his mind, it was quick work to get out the Pensieve — a smaller version than Dumbledore’s, a newer model— and pour the silvery memories in. Harry took a deep breath, tried not to think about the fact that he was about to essentially stick his head into Draco Malfoy’s brain, and dove in.

After the first disorienting moments of falling through space and time, Harry landed hard and looked around. He was standing on a deserted street corner in what felt like the middle of the night. A moment later, he recognized it as the corner of Miles’s street in Madrid. There was the small bar where he and Ron had gotten lunch the first day they interviewed Miles. The fact that it was closed now indicated that it was very, very late.

Suddenly, a figure slipped out of the door of Miles’s apartment building and Harry moved himself closer. A tall, thin man holding a child, both of them wrapped in heavy coats. Harry couldn’t see their faces, but from the gleam of a streetlight on silver-blond hair, the man was clearly Malfoy. When the small child sobbed, suddenly, she had Viola’s voice. There he is, Harry thought with vicious triumph, kidnapping the kid. We’ve got him.

Then the scene changed and Harry was standing in Miles’s flat. He was confused, briefly, because it looked like Miles was standing over a pile of dirty laundry and yelling at it. He kicked it and it grunted. Harry realized with horror that the pile of dirty laundry was actually a person. It was Malfoy, lying curled at Miles feet, clearly trying to protect his face by burying his head in his arms. Miles kicked him again. “Fucking Death Eater faggot,” he said spat. “I know you’re hiding money from me. I know you are! Tell me where it is.” He was holding a bottle, the brown glass shining in the light of the one lightbulb.

“I told you,” Malfoy wheezed. “I gave you all the money I made this month. I—”

“Liar!” shouted Miles, and whirled away from Malfoy, towards another corner of the room where, Harry saw with horror, Viola was crouched and cowering. He advanced on her and she whimpered, watching him through wide gray eyes. Harry could see her chest rising and falling rapidly. “Maybe you know, my sweet one,” he crooned.

Malfoy, seeing him advance on Viola, tried to get up but fell back, breathing hard through his teeth and clutching his rib cage. Harry saw, with terrible clarity, that his face was covered with bruises.

“She doesn’t know,” he gasped. “She doesn’t know. Please don’t—”

“Oh, but I will,” said Miles silkily, and slapped Viola hard across the face. She screamed, starting to cry and shake.

“No!” Harry realized he had spoken in unison with Malfoy. He could only watch, though, helpless as Miles picked Viola up by the collar of her dress and shook her violently.

“Where is the money, you little cunt?” he rasped. “Tell me, or your sister gets cut.” Suddenly he smashed the bottle against the table and brought a jagged edge up to Viola’s cheek, which was reddening already from the smack.

Malfoy was crying, Viola was screaming, and Harry had never felt so utterly, horribly helpless in his entire life, when the scene changed again —

It was mid-afternoon, sunlight streaming into the kitchen. Malfoy was standing at the stove, stirring something in a sauce pan. A much younger Viola sat at his feet, playing with a ratty stuffed lion. “Does Admiral Covington want any pasta?” Malfoy asked Viola seriously. She looked at the lion, then at Malfoy, and shook her head solemnly. “Ok,” Malfoy agreed easily. “Would you like any pasta?” He looked over his shoulder quickly as he said it — checking to make sure they were alone? Harry wondered.

Viola looked over her shoulder too, then nodded. Quickly, Malfoy scooped out a piece of pasta and blew on it before handing it to Viola, who munched on it hungrily. Malfoy watched her, his brow creasing with concern. Then the front door swung open and Malfoy jumped guiltily, turning back to the pot on the stove. “I’m home!” came Miles’s voice. Then: “Are you eating my food before I say you can, you greedy little —?” Malfoy acted quickly, scooping Viola up and grabbing the remains of the pasta away from her as he placed her gently in an adjoining room and shut the door neatly on her frightened, pale face. “It’s ok,” Harry heard him whisper. “Put your hands over your ears and sing to yourself like I showed you,” before turning back to the kitchen where Miles was standing, glaring at him. He advanced on Malfoy, his fists clenching, and Malfoy watched him come.

The scene changed. Malfoy walked into the apartment, his face and clothes covered in dust. He looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes. Viola, even smaller now, toddled up to him and wrapped her tiny arms around his calves. Malfoy dropped to his knees, smiling at her tiredly.

“Hey, kid,” he said, cuddling her close. “How’s tricks?”

She didn’t respond, just snuggled closer into his arms. Malfoy rested his chin on top of her head and closed his eyes. Harry nearly looked away at the helpless anger and bitter sadness that descended over Malfoy’s face in that moment. It felt too personal, too raw. But he had made a promise, and so he continued watching as Malfoy gently ran his hands over Viola’s face, shoulders, and legs – checking her for bruises, Harry realized with a sickening lurch – and then led her into the kitchen.

“I’ve got some exciting news,” he told her quietly as he lifted her to sit on the counter next to the sink while he washed his hands. “I’ve met someone who says he can help us, give us a place to stay and some time to figure things out. He’s very kind.” Malfoy’s eyes lit up briefly and Harry felt a stab of something unfamiliar. “He can’t wait to meet you, and he’s very –”

“Interesting,” came Miles’s voice, and Malfoy spun around so quickly he hit his hand against the counter. The older man was standing in the doorway. He had clearly been listening to everything. “This man of yours – he wouldn’t be Álvaro Perez, would he?”

Malfoy didn’t respond, but the flash of realization in his eyes was answer enough. Miles chuckled darkly as he came fully into the kitchen.

“You poor sod,” he said, almost kindly. “I paid him to tell you those things to see how you’d respond. Didn’t even have to pay him much, when I told him it was to fuck with a Death Eater.”

Malfoy’s face flushed and he looked down, gripping the counter behind him until his knuckles turned white.

“I wasn’t – I didn’t –” he started, but Miles strode forward and punched him squarely in the gut. Malfoy doubled over, heaving.

“Save your breath, you ungrateful little slag,” he growled, looming over him. “When I’m through with you, you’ll never even consider running away again –”

And the scene changed again.

It went on like this, working back through time. Viola got smaller and smaller and more and more vocal and happy. Malfoy, too, got louder and snarkier, and his face filled out so that it was merely narrow and chiseled instead of gaunt. Harry knew he was seeing starvation and abuse in reverse.

He was just about to pull out, sickened, when the scene changed dramatically. Narcissa Malfoy was there, lying in a bed and looking pale and haggard. Malfoy was sitting by her head, holding a small crying, wiggling bundle and staring at his mother. Miles strode in and bent over Narcissa, caressing her cheek tenderly.

“How are you my love?” He asked quietly. She didn’t reply, just turned her head away from him and closed her eyes.

Malfoy didn’t look away from his mother. His voice was hoarse. “We have to take her to the hospital. I think she’s dying.”

“The hospital? With what money?” Miles shook his head. “Give the baby to me and keep giving her water. She’ll recover soon.”

Without a word, Malfoy handed the bundle to Miles, who walked out of the room. Malfoy bent over Narcissa’s prone form, grasped her hand. “I can cure you,” he said quietly, desperately, but Narcissa eyes flew open and she shook her head violently.

“You’ll be thrown in Azkaban and Viola will have no one,” she said, so softly that Harry and Malfoy both had to lean forward to hear. “You have your whole life ahead of you, Draco, and she does too. Please let me go knowing that you have each other.” Malfoy said nothing, but he squeezed his mother’s hand and bowed his head.

Narcissa was pale and drawn in the next one too, but standing tall and straight before a judge who was muttering in Spanish. Miles was holding both her hands, looking delighted, and Draco stood behind her, his face an expressionless mask. Then Narcissa was bending over Malfoy, who was lying on the ground under a bridge, shivering and sweaty. A man’s voice, Miles: “Do you need any help, my dear?” And Narcissa looked around, her face lifting with terrible hope.

And then it was over. With a jolt, Harry found himself standing once more before the Pensieve, the dark Auror offices quiet around him. He realized he was breathing hard, fists clenched, and there were tears running down his face. He hadn’t even realized he’d been crying.

He made his way back to the cells, clutching the vial with the swirling memories, his mind still half in Madrid. Malfoy was sitting on the cot, staring into space. When he saw Harry, he leapt up and crossed to the bars, holding onto them tightly.

“Did you watch them?” His voice was cold but his eyes were narrow and desperate.

“Yes,” Harry nodded. “And Malfoy —"

“She didn’t deserve that,” he cut in quickly. “Even if she — even if she is related to me, to us, she’s just a kid. She hasn’t hurt anybody. She wouldn’t—”

Harry put up a hand, nodded. “I know. And I promise you this, Malfoy.” He stepped closer. “Miles will never get the chance to hurt her again.”

Malfoy sagged, his eyes closing briefly. “Thank you.”

“It’s not for you,” Harry said grimly. “It’s for her. And for every child who’s ever been hurt by the people who were supposed to take care of them.”

Malfoy nodded, not looking up. “I know. Still. Thank you.”

“I think these memories will be important in the case against him,” Harry said slowly. “Do you mind if I come back for them tomorrow?”

Malfoy shook his head, still not making eye contact. “I’ll be here. At least I think I will.” He looked up briefly, almost disinterested. “Do you happen to know what they plan to do with me now?”

Harry shook his head but stepped closer to the bars of the cell. “I’ll find out. And Malfoy — I won’t let them send you back to him either.”

Malfoy scoffed and stepped back from the bars until he was sitting on the narrow cot. “I know, I know, I’m going to Azkaban. Very original, Potter. This must be hugely satisfying for you.” He lay down, facing the wall, and Harry left without another word.

--

He returned to the holding cells with Ron and Hermione the next day. They had left Rose and Viola with Luna, who often babysat for Ron and Hermione and with whom Viola seemed cautiously taken. She had been so tired the night before, Hermione told him, that she had gone to sleep immediately, but had been quiet and wary upon waking and finding Malfoy still gone.

“I hope Luna can get her to laugh a bit,” Ron said, concern lacing his voice. “At least Rosie’s being nice.”

The two little girls were definitely sweet together. Harry had seen them when he’d stopped by after breakfast before going with Hermione and Ron to the Ministry. They’d been curled up together in one of the big armchairs in the den. Rose was reading one of her favorite books aloud and Viola was staring off into space. When she’d noticed Harry watching her, she’d glared at him and turned her gaze back to Rose, nestling deeper into the chair defiantly.

Malfoy had a similar air about him when they arrived at his cell. He was sitting on the cot, staring down at his hands folded in his lap and swinging one leg over the side. When they stopped in front of his cell door, however, he looked up and stood quickly.

“Granger,” he acknowledged with a sharp nod. “Your hair is looking much better these days.”

“Malfoy,” Hermione responded coolly. “You look like shit.”

Harry expected Malfoy to lash out, but instead the other man snorted a laugh and looked at Hermione appraisingly, a half smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “The brightest witch of our age, ladies and gentlemen,” he said grandly. Then he leaned forward, his face sharpening.

“How is she?” he asked quietly. Hermione nodded.

“She slept well,” she answered, with a softness in her voice that surprised Harry. “And she and Rose – she’s our daughter – have really taken to each other. She won’t talk to us much, but she ate a good breakfast and she’s with Luna now.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened. “Lovegood?” he breathed. “She won’t – will she –?”

“She won’t take her anger at you out on your sister, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Harry interjected coldly. “Not everyone’s a monster.”

Malfoy nodded and looked down, his face seeming to close again. When he looked back up, it was back to the expressionless mask.

“Thank you for taking care of her,” he said carefully to Ron and Hermione. “I am in your debt.”

“She’s a dream,” Ron said. “But listen, Malfoy, we wanted to talk to you about custody.”

Malfoy nodded slowly. “What about it?”

“Well, obviously we’re all in agreement that she can’t go back to Miles,” Hermione began. “Harry told us the situation, and Malfoy...” She trailed off at Malfoy’s curt headshake, then began again. “But the court is unlikely to award you custody, seeing as you’re...”

She trailed off again, but Malfoy smirked. “An exiled Death Eater who may or may not be going to Azkaban for the rest of his life? Yes, Granger, I’m aware that I’m hardly the ideal parenting candidate.”

Harry realized, suddenly, that Malfoy’s smirk belied the fear in his eyes. Has he always lashed out when he’s afraid? he wondered. Then he shook himself. He’s an arsehole. Of course he’s smirking when Hermione’s trying to talk to him about Viola’s future.

Hermione didn’t seem fazed. “Do you know of anyone else who would be a possibility?” she asked. “Any friends of your family who stayed out of the war...?”

“Anyone in our circle who stayed out of the war left England long ago,” Malfoy responded grimly. “Even if I could get in touch with them, I doubt they’d be open to taking Viola, even if she’s only half Malfoy.” He grimaced, shooting a glance at Hermione from under heavy lids. “That kind of compassion is really more your side’s thing.”

Hermione nodded, tapping her chin. Then she looked at Ron. “Ronald, can I speak with you in private for a moment?”

Ron agreed, bemused, and he and Hermione walked back to the end of the hallway, where Harry could see them conferring in hushed tones. He turned back to the cell, feeling a bit left out, only to find himself on the receiving end of an uncomfortably astute stare by Malfoy.

“Still third-wheeling, I see,” he said airily. “Tell me, Potter, have you ever thought of getting a family of your own, or do you plan to leech off of Weasley and Granger for the rest of your life?”

“Watch it, Malfoy,” Harry growled, pulling out his wand and pushing down the uncomfortable feeling in his gut that Malfoy’s words had provoked. “I might be on your side when it comes to Viola, but you’re still a fucking criminal and I’m an Auror, so –”

“We’ll take her,” Hermione said as she and Ron rejoined the group, as if Harry wasn’t pressed up against the bars with his wand pointed at Malfoy’s throat. Both Harry and Malfoy looked around.

“You?” The shock in Malfoy’s voice was palpable. “You’ll – you’re saying that you and Weasley –”

“Will foster her, yes,” Hermione replied, unfazed. “She’ll have a friend in Rose, we’ve got the space, and our status as war heroes can only help the case.” She paused for a moment as she seemed to realize to whom she was speaking. “That is, if it’s alright with you.”

“Alright? It’s fantastic,” Malfoy replied, sounding dazed. “I don’t know how – I doubt I’ll ever be able to repay you for this.”

“Consider it a gift,” Hermione said with a soft smile. “To Viola,” she added quickly, and Malfoy nodded, his face again unreadable.

--

They hired a lawyer whom Hermione knew from school. Elias Cho was charming, likeable, and completely single-minded when it came to children’s custody cases, according to Hermione. “He’s about as far from a Malfoy as you can get. He’ll be perfect.”

Harry showed him to Malfoy’s cell a few days later for their first interview. Elias was planning to question Malfoy under Veritaserum because Pensieved memories had been known, in certain court cases, to come under scrutiny as too subjective to be evidence.

“Vertiaserum is complex as well, of course,” Elias said cheerfully as he walked through the Auror offices at Harry’s side, “but at least you get to control the narrative.”

Malfoy, by this point, was looking distinctly the worse for wear. Harry wondered what they were feeding him – his cheeks had hollowed and there were dark circles under his eyes that suggested he had not been sleeping well. Then Harry realized that Malfoy was likely eating and sleeping less so he looked even more pitiful and pitiable before the judge, and wanted to kick himself for falling for the other man’s tricks.

He left Elias and Malfoy talking in low voices, with a promise to return to show Elias out when he was finished. Then he contacted Miles.

Harry had been putting this off for days. “I can do it, mate,” Ron had said at least three times since they’d returned, but Harry had refused.

Now he was kind of wishing he had taken Ron up on the offer, but it was Ron’s day off. He didn’t have any more excuses.

Taking a deep breath, Harry let himself into the phone room – a small glassed corner of one of their office rooms that had an old Muggle phone in it for moments when Aurors had to call Squibs or Muggles on official business – and dialed Miles’s number. The other man picked up on the second ring.

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Hathaway,” Harry began. “We’ve found your daughter and taken Draco Malfoy into custody –”

He was cut short by a bellow of delight on the other end of the line.

“My daughter! You’ve found my girl? When’s she coming home? How is she?”

“She’s doing fine,” Harry responded. “She’s actually staying with an Auror and his wife while we figure out the details of a custody case. We have reason to believe,” he said carefully. “That she has been abused. By you,” he added, lest there be any confusion.

There was a moment of complete silence. Then Miles growled. Harry had never heard a human being make a noise like that.

“Is that what that fucker said?” he snapped. “The fucking little cunt, he’s always had it out for me, even though I saved him and his mother, even though Viola’s my daughter and I was only doing what’s mine to do –”

“Mr. Hathaway,” Harry interrupted. “I would strongly advise you not to say anything else until you have hired a lawyer. I will have someone in our office contact you to set up a date for the hearing. Good-bye.”

He hung up quickly and stared at the phone for a long moment. “I was only doing what’s mine to do.”

“You should be grateful, you little runt, grateful that we took you in, otherwise you’d be on the street –”

Harry shook himself. He hadn’t spoken to his uncle in nearly a decade. His voice shouldn’t be so very clear in Harry’s head.

He let himself out of the phone room and wandered back to his desk, busying himself by tidying up and filling in unfinished paperwork until a silver raven patronus flew over and perched on a dirty coffee mug.

“All finished,” it said in Elias Cho’s smiling voice. Harry took a deep breath and headed back to the cells.

When he got there, he found Malfoy and Elias laughing about something together, which made Harry feel oddly irritated.

“I just spoke to Miles,” he said shortly, and was distantly gratified to see the smiles slide off their faces. Malfoy drew back, looking suddenly pale and withdrawn. “He’s angry. I don’t think he’ll let her go without a fight.”

Elias wrinkled his brow and glanced at Draco. “Do you have any idea why he wants her back so badly? From what you’ve told me, he resented her presence in his life.”

“I think the state was paying him some kind of child support,” Malfoy replied. “At least, I remember him getting checks in the mail sometimes, getting all gleeful and talking about going to the bank. If I had to guess, I’d say that someone finally figured out Viola was gone and stopped sending him that money. That explains why he’s so desperate. He could never hold onto money.”

Elias nodded, making a note. “I’ll look into that.” He glanced up at Harry. “I assume the court date will be soon?”

“Very likely,” Harry agreed. “They like to get custody cases cleared up as quickly as possible, so that the child in question can return to a sort of normalcy. I’ll check in with Kingsley this afternoon and let you both know.”

“Thanks,” Elias said, then stood and stretched. “And thank you, Mr. Malfoy. I think I have all I need for now, but may I call upon you again tomorrow?” He made a little bow, somehow both self-mocking and endearing, and Malfoy huffed a laugh.

“I will clear my schedule at once, my gallant knight,” he replied, waving airily. “And pine away the hours till we meet again.”

Elias left, chuckling, and Harry followed, feeling more irritated than ever, although he couldn’t put a finger on why.

--

The court date was indeed soon: the very next week, in fact. When Harry arrived at the offices of the Wizengamot that morning, he saw Miles immediately: ruddy and angry, talking loudly with a short, pale man who Harry assumed was his lawyer.

It was all predictably terrible. Malfoy was brought out in chains to give his testimony and answer the lawyers’ questions. Harry was impressed at Elias’s way with words, and at Malfoy’s composure. He spoke about the horrors he and Viola had experienced at Miles’s hands with a sort of detached calm that somehow communicated the atrocity of it all far more than tears or rage. By the time he was finished, Harry saw several members of the jury wiping their eyes surreptitiously, and didn’t blame them.

Randy Hoker, Miles’s lawyer, stood with the air of someone about to squash a bug.

“Tell me, Mr. Malfoy: how old were you when you voluntarily joined the Death Eaters?”

He pulled out every bad choice Malfoy had ever made, every snide comment that had ever been overheard by someone, and turned them over and over until they glinted in the light and the jury couldn’t help but look at them. Hoker even brought up Dumbledore’s death at one point, and Harry saw red.

“Malfoy’s not the one on trial, here,” he snarled before he could stop himself. “He was cleared for Dumbledore’s death years ago, I gave testimony, you can’t –”

The Chief Warlock called for a brief recess and Ron pulled him out of the room. Malfoy watched him with those smooth gray eyes, betraying nothing.

The trial dragged on for three days and Malfoy was called to the stand multiple more times. Each time, he looked a little more haggard, a little gaunter. Between his own memories, though, and countless other items of evidence – including a written testimony by Elena describing how beat-up both Malfoy and Viola were when they arrived at her house (provided, she thought, for a Muggle court) – the Wizengamot finally came to a decision. Viola would be formally placed in foster care with Ron and Hermione until she became a legal adult at age 17. Miles was stripped of all parental rights. He wouldn’t be able to get to her ever again. She was safe.

Malfoy had been returned to his cell before the verdict was read, and Harry stopped briefly in his office to pick up a bottle of champagne a grateful citizen had given him at some point. He didn’t think too hard about it – he was grinning from ear to ear, thrilled that Viola would be safe from Miles, and eager to tell Malfoy they had won.

As he approached the door, though, he heard voices raised in laughter: Elias Cho. Harry stopped in his tracks.

“—couldn’t have done it otherwise,” Cho said from the holding cell hallway. “You were superb.”

“You weren’t so bad yourself,” Malfoy replied, his voice unmistakably flirtatious. Harry gritted his teeth. There was a murmur, and then silence, broken a moment later by a quiet “Oh,” and then an “Mmm,” that didn’t sound like Malfoy at all.

Harry turned on his heel and stalked out, out of the Auror offices and into the blinding sunlight of a late afternoon street. A few blocks later, he realized he was still carrying the bottle of champagne, and flung it with sudden vehemence against a brick wall, where it shattered with a glittering crash.

--

Harry threw himself into work. There were always new cases to take on, new victims to question, new perpetrators to track down. He was a busy man with a full schedule and terrible work-life balance. It made all kinds of sense that he would be too busy to go visit one specific prisoner in one specific cell. The case had been solved, Viola’s custody battle had been won, she was settling in quite well with Ron and Hermione, according to Ron’s stories, and the Ministry could handle Malfoy from here on out.

Which was why, two weeks later, when Robards popped his head out of his office and said curtly, “Malfoy’s trial’s set for July 13,” it took Harry a minute to register what had just happened. He was deep in his notes for a case of illegal potions smuggling, wondering whether he’d be able to take Ron along when they inevitably had to go undercover as illegal potions dealers or if he’d get stuck with Felix Jennings, who liked to listen to “A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love” on repeat when conducting stakeouts, again. Robard’s comment seemed completely out of the blue.

“Sir?” he asked, looking up from the potions file rather blearily.

“Draco Malfoy will go to trial for breaking the terms of his probation and kidnapping on July 13,” Robards repeated with exaggerated slowness. “Do you want me to write it down for you?”

“Thank you, sir, I’ve got it,” Harry said, scrambling for a piece of paper. “Weren’t the kidnapping charges dropped when Viola’s custody –”

“There’s clear motive and justified cause, but he still took the girl from her legal guardian at that time,” Robards said. “And the sentence violation – using magic when it was expressly forbidden – won’t help.” He huffed an annoyed sigh. “Any other questions you’d like me to answer for you, Potter?”

“No, sir, thank you,” Harry said quickly. “It’s just –” He glanced at the calendar on his desk: May 2. “That’s almost two months away. Are they offering parole?”

“To a convicted Death Eater? You’re hilarious, Potter,” Robards said, already turning to go back into his office. The door shut with a final thud.

Harry pushed back from his chair and took a breath. He hadn’t thought about Malfoy, down there in one of the holding cells, in days. Had it been two weeks since Miles’s trial? Since Malfoy and Elias...

Malfoy was probably having the time of his life down there, Harry reflected bitterly as he made his way down to the basement. A place to sleep, getting regular meals, and kissing a gorgeous, funny lawyer through the bars of his cell. He’ll probably be thrilled he gets another two months.

Harry pushed open the door to the holding cells and made his way to where he had deposited Malfoy that first night. He peered in.

Malfoy was curled up on the cot, his face to the wall. Harry hesitated, feeling a strange unwillingness to wake him up, but a moment later Malfoy stirred.

“Yes, what is it?” he asked irritably, sitting up and turning to face the door. When he saw Harry, his expression hardened. “Ah, Potter. It’s been a while.”

“Um. Yes,” Harry said uncomfortably. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. Malfoy was watching him narrowly, and Harry noticed suddenly that his face looked even thinner than it had when they had arrested him. His skin in the lumos light was pale and sallow.

“I got word on your trial,” he said quickly. “July 13. You’ll be notified of the exact time closer to the date.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Malfoy replied evenly. “I assume I am to be here until then?”

Harry cursed inwardly. “Yes,” he said viciously. “What, did you think they’d offer parole to a convicted Death Eater?”

“No,” Malfoy said calmly. “I just thought I’d ask.” He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. There were still dark circles beneath them. His arms looked very thin. How much weight had he lost in these last two weeks?

“Anything else, Potter?” he asked suddenly, and Harry startled, aware he had been staring.

“That’s it,” Harry shot back. He turned to go, then turned back. “Except – are they feeding you?”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “In a manner of speaking.” He tilted his head. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you don’t look like you’ll live long enough to go to trial,” Harry said quickly. “I don’t want you dying of starvation before we get all this sorted.”

Malfoy nodded. One corner of his mouth quirked up in what might have been a smile. “I’ll try not to disappoint,” he said. Harry nodded back and turned to go, when Malfoy spoke again.

“Potter. How – how is Viola?”

Something in Malfoy’s voice made him turn back to look at the other man. Malfoy was still watching him blandly, but his hands had clasped into fists.

“Good, I think,” Harry replied. “Ron says she’s settling in pretty well. I know she misses you, though,” he added awkwardly, realizing that he hadn’t been to Ron and Hermione’s house since Viola had moved in. Malfoy huffed a laugh.

“She’ll learn,” he said cryptically, dropping his head back to lean against the stone. “Granger and Weasley telling her all the stories of my misspent youth will help cure her of that.”

“They don’t badmouth you to her, Malfoy,” Harry said defensively. “They’re caring for her. And she loves you.” He waited for a moment, but Malfoy didn’t respond. “I could see about arranging a visit, if you like,” he offered then, slightly guilty for not thinking of it before, but Malfoy’s eyes flicked back to him and he shook his head vehemently.

“No, Potter, no visits. Granger’s offered, but I don’t want her to see me like this.”

Harry nodded. “Ok. No visits.” He hesitated again, unsure what to say next. Malfoy watched him for a moment, then closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the stone.

“Thank you, Potter, you can go now,” he said, with an air of finality. Harry felt as if he was being dismissed, and fought a sudden urge to chuckle.

“See you later, Malfoy,” he said, letting amusement creep into his voice. Then he remembered something. “Um, do you want me to let Elias know about the court date? Or will you tell him?”

“Why the fuck would he care, Potter?” Malfoy asked, opening his eyes again and staring at him in confusion. “I certainly can’t afford to hire my own lawyer. I assumed the Ministry would provide some hack who would pretend to try to get me off and get paid a little extra to do a bad job.”

“First of all, if you can’t afford a lawyer, the Ministry will provide you one of their legal staff who are highly skilled and incredibly ethical,” Harry retorted. “Second, excuse me for thinking that your boyfriend would want to help you, clearly –”

“Excuse me?” Malfoy said, looking at Harry disbelievingly. “My boyfriend? What in the world are you on about, Potter?”

“I heard you and Elias. After – um – after Viola’s trial,” Harry shot back, suddenly feeling like a huge creep. “Um...were you not –?”

“Oh, that,” Malfoy said, waving a hand dismissively and leaning back against the wall so that he was no longer looking at Harry. “It turns out my copious charms aren’t quite enough to balance the drawbacks of dating a prisoner and – how did you so eloquently put it earlier, Potter? – a ‘convicted Death Eater.’ Good in kink, dull in practice, I suppose.”

Harry felt his face flush. Malfoy snapped his head back toward Harry, suddenly smiling flirtatiously. “Why, Potter, you want a turn with me?”

“Me? What – no, Malfoy, god,” Harry spluttered, feeling his face grow redder by the second. “That’s not what – I was just –”

“I’m teasing you, Potter,” Malfoy interrupted, the flirtatious smile fading to be replaced by a look of deep exhaustion. “You know I’m a hopeless tease.” He closed his eyes and leaned back once more. “I’ll see you in two months.”

“Twat,” Harry said quietly. Malfoy didn’t react. “Bye, then,” he said lamely, and headed back to his desk.

Malfoy’s thin, tired face wouldn’t leave his mind for the rest of the day, though, and neither would his words. “You know I’m a hopeless tease.”

**

The next day, Harry found himself heading down to the holding cells at 1 p.m. sharp. He had half an hour before his next meeting, and had packed himself two ham sandwiches by accident, distracted as he was by the intricacies of the potions smuggling case. It made perfect sense to see if Malfoy wanted one, Harry told himself. Sharing food with a prisoner was certainly not usual, but it wasn’t against any explicit regulations. Besides, Harry reasoned, he wouldn’t stay long. Just long enough to see if Malfoy wanted the sandwich, and to assure himself that the other man was being taken care of appropriately.

And to tell Malfoy that Viola was doing well. He had stopped by Ron and Hermione’s last night for dinner, and had made a point to talk to Viola and let her show him her new bed, the books on the shelf by her small table, and Theodore, her stuffed plush dragon. He thought Malfoy would especially enjoy that last part.

Hermione had also told him about an idea she’d had regarding Malfoy’s case. Ron had rolled his eyes when she brought it up – Seems like a lot of trouble to go to for a Malfoy, is all I’m saying – but it had peaked Harry’s interest. “There still a lot to figure out,” Hermione had said at the end, “but it just occurred to me. Since his kidnapping Viola was really in her best interest, and she loves him so much, he can’t be all bad...”

Now, Harry stopped outside Malfoy’s cell to again see Malfoy curled on the cot, facing the wall. This time, when Malfoy didn’t react right away, Harry cleared his throat.

Malfoy started up and whipped around, his eyes going wide. When he saw Harry, though, his eyes narrowed dangerously.

“What do you want?” he asked sharply. “Here to give me more useless updates on my case?”

“No updates,” Harry said, not answering the first question. He held out his extra sandwich, wrapped in clear plastic. “Do you want a sandwich? It’s ham,” he added when Malfoy didn’t move. “I made extra by mistake.”

Malfoy shifted warily until he was sitting with his back pressed against the stone and his knees drawn up in front of him. The pose made him look younger, as did the fact that his hair was starting to grow out around his ears.

“What do you want?” he asked again, but the intonation was different. What do you want in exchange? was the real question here.

“Jesus, Malfoy, I’m just offering you a sandwich. Not everything has to be some weird transaction,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. To illustrate the point, he pulled up a chair that had been left in front of one of the other cells and unwrapped his own sandwich before taking an exaggerated bite. “It’s called lunch. Ever heard of it?”

Malfoy stepped forward tentatively until he could grab the sandwich from Harry’s hand. He inspected it carefully, turning it over in his hands before unwrapping it, then peering between the slices of bread.

“I’m not going to poison you,” Harry said, slightly offended. “That’s your tactic, remember?”

Malfoy gave him a look of extreme dislike, but perched back on the edge of the cot and took a hesitant bite. After a moment, when nothing seemed to happen, he took another bite, bigger, then another.

“That’s better,” Harry said, smiling as Malfoy quickly finished off the sandwich. “I knew you’d catch on eventually.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “It’s not my fault your cooking skills leave so much to be desired,” he snapped, but Harry noticed his eyes were slightly softer. Wordlessly, he filled a cup with water with a quick aguamenti and passed it through the bars.

Malfoy accepted it without hesitation this time and drank it down. “Got anything else in there?” he asked, eyeing Harry’s lunch bag. Harry laughed and tossed him an apple through the bars, which Malfoy set about demolishing.

“I went by Ron and Hermione’s last night,” Harry said casually, and watched as Malfoy froze, the apple halfway back to his mouth. “Viola’s quite the talker, isn’t she?”

“She’s got lots to say,” Malfoy said, still a bit wary, but his eyes brightened. “What was she on about last night?”

So Harry told him: about the stuffed dragon who liked to eat cookies, and the fact that Viola and Rose read books together before bed, and that Viola had discovered a deep love of Ron’s roasted radishes which, she told Harry, were little packages of sweet sunshine that came out of the oven. Malfoy laughed at that.

“I used to tell her that the oven was a tiny sun, so she shouldn’t get too close to it,” he said, chuckling. “Glad Weasley can use that to get her to eat her vegetables.”

Harry suddenly remembered the Pensieve memory of Malfoy and Viola sneaking bites of pasta when Miles was out of the house. “She’s a good eater,” he said aloud. “Ron says she’ll try anything he puts in front of her, but she always knows when she’s full.”

Malfoy nodded, his eyes still that soft gray that Harry thought was actually quite beautiful. “Thank you, Potter,” he said sincerely. “I – am very grateful for this.”

“You’re welcome, Malfoy,” Harry said. He checked his watch and cursed. “I’m late,” he said, standing up quickly and pushing the chair back. Malfoy nodded, his face returning to its impassive mask.

“Bye, Potter,” he said, moving back until he was sitting fully on the cot.

“See you later, Malfoy,” Harry called back over his shoulder.

It became a sort of routine, to Harry’s surprise. Harry chuckled to himself, bemused, when he found himself heading down to the basement for a second time that week, and Malfoy looked positively aghast when he appeared again at the cell door, this time holding out a Tupperware bowl of leftover lasagna.

“You’ll never guess what Viola and Rose put in Ron’s shoes this morning,” Harry said by way of greeting, which seemed to be all Malfoy needed. With a crow of pure delight, he grabbed the Tupperware and settled himself on the edge of the cot as Harry pulled up the chair.

“Flour,” Malfoy guessed instantly, and Harry looked at him in disbelief.

“How did you know that?”

“She learned it from me, Potter,” Malfoy said in what sounded for all the world like fond exasperation. “Now, go on – what did Weasley do?”

It was never more than twice or three times a week, and always early to late afternoon. Harry was too busy for it to be every day, and too distracted for it to be at a reasonable lunch hour. Malfoy never complained, though, or asked where he’d been the days Harry didn’t come. He seemed slightly surprised each time Harry appeared, as if he thought each previous time had been the last. He was often subdued at first, too, but Harry noticed him relaxing more and more quickly each time. It was a good excuse to see Ron, Hermione, and the girls, too. Harry found himself becoming more and more enamored of Viola by the day. It was easy to see how Malfoy loved her so much, and he delighted in sharing anecdotes and funny stories that made Malfoy’s eyes light up.

Harry found, to his deep and abiding surprise, that Malfoy was incredibly easy to talk to. He was attentive and emotive, often gasping, laughing, or clapping at Harry’s stories of Rose’s and Viola’s antics. He asked good questions, too. It was a far cry from the snobbish, blood-purist youth Harry remembered from Hogwarts, and Harry found he liked this Malfoy far more.

Harry found himself telling Malfoy things he hadn’t even told Ron and Hermione. At one point, Malfoy made a comment about cleaning with Muggles tools being time-consuming and draining, then ducked his head suddenly, seeming embarrassed. Harry, though, nodded vigorously.

“My childhood would have been so much better if I’d been able to use magic to clean,” he agreed with a chuckle. “Although my aunt and uncle probably would’ve thrown me out on the street.”

“Did a lot of cleaning, did you Potter?” Malfoy asked drily, but his eyebrow quirked in what seemed like genuine interest. So Harry told him: about the chores he had to do before he could eat dinner; about vacuuming Dudley’s room and having to move all Dudley’s toys, which he was never allowed to play with, to be able to get into the corners; about the cupboard under the stairs. Draco listened soberly, nodding once or twice when something resonated. When Harry finished, he took a deep breath, seemingly gearing up to say something profound.

“Grown-ups really suck sometimes, don’t they?” was what he actually said, and Harry found himself laughing so hard that tears leaked from his eyes.

“Yes,” he agreed when he could talk again. “They really do.”

About a month in, Harry asked a question that had been niggling at him for weeks now. They were sharing a pizza that Harry had picked up from a place he liked near the Ministry. He was watching Malfoy pick off the black olives from the veggie slice he had taken – “They taste like salted death, Potter, and no you may not have the ones I don’t want, it’s disgusting enough that you’re eating your own, don’t you dare laugh at me” – and he thought, suddenly, that perhaps he could ask this question without it coming out wrong.

“Malfoy, what alerted your Trace? The day that Ron and I found you and Viola?”

Malfoy smiled, slow and happy and altogether unexpected. “Viola started it. Her first accidental magic,” he answered after taking another bite of pizza. “We were getting in the car to go check on the cows, and she was kind of playing with my hair as I was leaning over her to fasten her seat belt.” He mimed the movement with an exaggerated lean from his cot, and Harry laughed. “Then I felt the most incredible warmth right near my forehead and I looked up to see all these little golden faeries and dragons dancing in the air right in front of us. She had created this amazing illusion, it looked like they were spinning right out of my hair.” He laughed, a warm, bright sound that Harry found himself missing on the days he didn’t visit Malfoy. “It was the first time in a long time that I felt a little bit beautiful.” His face fell and he swallowed hard. “I think my magic reacted without my really intending it. Suddenly we were just surrounded by faeries...”

Harry swallowed the words that wanted to come out – wild words like “You are beautiful,” and “Please laugh again,” words that couldn’t be allowed to emerge. “She loves you so much,” he said instead, and Malfoy ducked his head, no longer laughing.

“I hope she forgets me quickly,” he said matter-of-factly. “I would hate for missing me to ruin her childhood.”

“Malfoy, she’s not going to forget you,” Harry said firmly. “And you’re going to see her again soon.” July 13 was drawing ever closer, when Malfoy would likely either be returned to Azkaban or re-sentenced to exile. Harry found himself not really liking either option.

“You’re such a liar, Potter,” Malfoy said, picking up another piece of pizza. “Umbridge had it right all along.”

He had asked Harry about the scars on the back of his hand one afternoon, and Harry had told him about Umbridge’s punishment from fifth year. He had cried, a bit, remembering how alone he had felt. Malfoy had listened quietly, then reached through the bars to put a hand on his arm. They hadn’t spoken about it since.

Now, Harry laughed and changed the subject. “What was your first use of accidental magic?” he asked, picking up another piece of pizza himself.

Malfoy picked off an olive. “Lucius always said it was to summon a frying pan so that Dobby could punish himself,” he said quietly. “I was four.”

“Oh,” said Harry, sobering quickly. There was an awkward little silence.

“My mum, though – she told me it was a year earlier, when I was three and she was getting ready for a party and dropped her earrings. Apparently, I levitated them back up for her so she wouldn’t have to bend down.” Malfoy laughed. It sounded forced. “So, let’s go with that one. I like to think I've always been helpful.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. He took a breath.

“I wasn’t even sad when I heard my father had died,” Malfoy said suddenly, casually, as if he were commenting on the weather. “I’m such a shit person.”

“You’re not,” Harry said, and was surprised to realize he believed that. “You’ve had a rough go of it, but you’re not a bad person.”

Malfoy looked up at him through pale eyelashes and Harry felt a sudden urge to stroke his cheek. He didn’t, though. He took another bite of pizza.

“Go on, then. What was yours?” Malfoy asked. “First magic?” he clarified, when Harry looked at him blankly.

“Oh, that.” Harry laughed and told him about the snake at Dudley’s birthday party, how it had spoken to him and how he had made the glass disappear, setting it free to the consternation of everyone around him. Malfoy laughed so hard he nearly fell off the cot.

“I can just imagine their faces,” he gasped, wiping his eyes. “Oh, Potter. Always such a do-gooder. ‘Brazil, here I come.’ Oh!” And he was off again, holding his stomach and chortling in glee.

Harry laughed too. He hadn’t ever thought of that moment as something funny, but he saw it now, looking back alongside Draco. Malfoy, he corrected himself hurriedly. He laughed a lot, actually, in these conversations with Malfoy. They were, in many ways, the best part of his day.

Which was why, the next day, he was unsurprised to find that he was looking forward to seeing Malfoy. So much so, in fact, that he hurried through all of his morning work and was heading down to the cells a full hour earlier than normal. He had more leftover lasagna today, which he knew Malfoy loved. He was excited to see the other man and tell him about Viola and Rose’s latest game, in which one of them pointed at you and said “Stupify” and you had to collapse and make funny noises while the other one tickled you. He was excited to hear Malfoy laugh.

He was so caught up in his excitement that he didn’t register that the door, usually spelled shut when he arrived, was slightly ajar. He pushed it open and barreled through, then stopped when he saw another Auror standing in the hallway right in front of Malfoy’s cell. It was a stocky man who Harry thought was called Richmond, or Ritchie. He was pressed up against the barred door, saying something in a low voice that Harry couldn’t quite hear. His pants seemed to be loose around the waist, sort of open in the front.

Harry took one step forward, then another.

Malfoy was on his knees in the cell, his mouth wrapped around Rich-whatever-his-name-was’s dick.

Harry might have made a noise. He wasn’t sure, after. He saw Malfoy’s eyes fly to his, saw him start violently and pull back. He looked stricken.

“No,” he whispered. Then: “I –”

The other Auror reached through the bars and grabbed the front of Malfoy’s robes, lifted him bodily until he was pressed against the bars.

“Listen you –” he snarled, or began to snarl. He didn’t get a chance to finish because then Harry was upon him, wand drawn, lasagna in its Tupperware forgotten on the floor.

“I’m going to give you two choices,” Harry said softly. The other Auror’s eyes widened, flicking back and forth between Harry’s face, the scar on his forehead, and the wand held before him. “You can come with me to Robards’s office quietly, on your own two feet, to explain what the hell you were doing to a Ministry prisoner and collect your belongings, or I can Stun you where you stand and Levitate you upstairs myself and you won’t be able to explain anything to anyone before you’re out of your job and likely back down here, except inside a cell this time.” He took a breath. “Do I make myself clear?”

“It was his idea!” Ritchie spluttered, pointing at Draco with a shaking finger. “He seduced me, said he’d blow me if I let him out of the cell and gave him extra food –”

Behind Harry, Draco gave a little moan. Harry did not turn around.

“Bullshit,” he said sternly. “You still have to choose one of my options. I should tell you: the longer it takes you to decide, the more likely it’s going to be Option #2.”

Ritchie glared at him for a moment. “You can’t prove anything,” he snarled suddenly. “It’s his word against mine –”

“And mine,” Harry said firmly. “And the gaps that I’m sure I’ll find in the surveillance footage. And the prisoner’s memories, and very likely his answers under Veritaserum, should it come to that. Anything else you want to try?”

Ritchie glared at him for another moment, then pushed past him and stalked back to Malfoy’s cell. Malfoy was still crouched on the floor where he had fallen when Ritchie had released him. He was covering his face with his hands.

Ritchie spat at him and it landed in a thick glob on Draco’s shoulder. Draco flinched away.

Harry saw red.

“Good choice,” he said. Then: “Stupify!”

A lot of people stared at him on the way up to the Auror offices, with Ritchie floating, unconscious, beside him. Harry glared at them all until they looked away.

--

It was several hours before he could get back to Malfoy. Robards had been furious at Harry barging into his office, then flabbergasted at the allegations. Harry had released Ritchie and Robards had drawn out a vial of Veritaserum from his desk with a stony glare.

It all happened very quickly, in some ways. By three o’clock, the surveillance footage had been pulled (and there were, indeed, gaps between twelve and one o’clock every day, going back to the third night Malfoy had been in the cell. Harry felt bile rise in the back of his throat), Ritchie’s immediate supervisor had been called in, and Ritchie himself was out of a job and under arrest. He had paid the bail money immediately and left the Ministry, leaving a desk full of old crumbs and a last glare for Harry.

In other ways, it seemed to take forever. By the time Harry was once more heading down to the holding cells, he was practically running. He had to see Draco. Had to make sure he was alright.

Malfoy had moved to the farthest corner from the cell door. He was curled in on himself, knees drawn up to his chin and face buried in his hands. He didn’t look up when Harry stopped in front of his cell.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, then stopped, at a loss. Malfoy didn’t budge.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said then, because it was what he was thinking. “I’m so, so sorry. I had no idea. He’s been doing this for weeks, hasn’t he? Ever since you got here.”

“First it was in exchange for my meals,” Malfoy said dully. “Then, once you started bringing me food and I was doing better, he threatened to Crucio me if I didn’t...” He made a sound that was something between a laugh and a sob. “You’d think living with Voldemort would’ve hardened me, but it didn’t. I can’t fucking stand pain.”

Harry crouched down so that he was eye-level with Malfoy, back in the gloom of the corner. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked softly.

Malfoy raised his head at that. His eyes were red and his hair was wild, as if he’d been pulling it. He glared at Harry so fiercely Harry almost took a step back.

“Oh come on, Potter, like you would have cared? Like you would’ve even believed me?”

Harry suddenly remembered, vividly, how he had been sure Malfoy was faking the dark circles under his eyes and his thinning frame before Viola’s trial to make himself seem more sympathetic. He closed his eyes against the memory.

“Maybe not before, but now, yes. Malfoy. I would’ve believed you.”

Malfoy turned his face away, staring at the opposite stone wall of the cell. “Because you’re attracted to me physically,” he said in a monotone.

Harry spluttered. “I – I don’t – it’s not – it’s because I like you, Malfoy. I like who you are now. I like how much you love Viola, and how funny you are, and how much you hate black olives –”

“I’ve always hated black olives. You just haven’t noticed.”

Harry rocked forward slightly, leaning against the bars. “And that’s my fault. I wish I had. I wish I’d gotten to know you like this sooner.”

“I didn’t make it easy.” Malfoy still wouldn’t look at him.

“No. Neither did I.” He clasped the bars in his hands, wishing he could clasp Malfoy’s hands. “I like you, Malfoy.”

“And what do you want me to do about that?” Malfoy snapped suddenly, his eyes blazing. “Keep entertaining you on your lunch breaks for another month before I’m thrown in Azkaban for kidnapping?”

“You really might not go to Azkaban, Draco. Hermione’s been working on something —”

“Forgive me if I don’t have the same blind faith in Granger as you do.” Malfoy shook his head. “Even if it’s not Azkaban, it’ll be back in exile, unable to see or be near any magic users ever again –” He broke off. Harry realized he was trembling.

“You’re thinking about Viola.”

Draco didn’t answer.

“Draco, you know Ron and Hermione will let you see her, right? No matter what happens?”

“It won’t be up to them,” he said savagely. “If I’m exiled again, I won’t be allowed to see any magic-users, including her. Once she goes to Hogwarts and hears who I am, what I’ve done, she’ll be glad of it. That’s why it’s good Granger and Weasley have her.” He clenched his fists. “This way she’ll have somewhere to go during school breaks. She’ll have parents who aren’t dead war criminals and she’ll have a sibling who isn’t — isn’t me.” He was crying now, not even trying to hide it. “She’s so much better off without me, but I still want to be with her more than anything. Selfish.”

Harry said nothing. What could he say? He sat in silence until Draco took a deep, gasping breath and looked up, glaring at him through puffy eyes.

“I’m sorry Potter. You were saying that you like me. And I was saying that you’re a twat and I’m a disaster and that you need to stay away from me for your own good, if you’re humanly capable of it.”

Harry shook his head slowly. “No, Malfoy, I was saying that Hermione is working on a plan and has moved your hearing up to next week.”

Malfoy gasped, his eyes flying to Harry’s face, but Harry wasn’t done. “And that you and I both know that I’m not humanly capable of staying away from you.”

Then he told him Hermione’s plan.

--

It was quite brilliant, of course. Modeled on muggle restorative justice systems, it would address any lingering concern about Malfoy’s danger to the general population while still lifting his exile from England and the wizarding world.

“And he’s the perfect candidate,” Hermione said, eyes shining. “Always a little ambiguous regarding the Death Eaters, never outright killed anyone, did his time in exile and then saved his little sister from a monster. Any lawyer worth their salt can make a case for personal growth and second chances.”

Draco would be released with his full magical privileges intact, able to interact with other magic users and get a job in the magical world if he wanted it.

“That’s how restorative justice works,” Hermione had insisted to Kingsley. “It’s based on trust. And a sponsor to check in with him on a regular basis for the first year, to make sure everything’s going well.”

They had both looked to him when Hermione mentioned a sponsor, but Harry had shaken his head vehemently.

“I don’t want there to be anything between us,” he said, blushing. “When I ask him to go on a date with me.”

Hermione had laughed as Kingsley looked at him in disbelief.

“Really? Malfoy?” he had asked.

“Yeah,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck, amused. “How about that.”

--

The trial itself was a nail-biter. The jury’s faces were impassive throughout as the lawyers argued back and forth and questioned Draco, Harry, Ron, and anyone else who could be dredged up from Draco’s past or present. Elena had provided another written testimony. The prosecutor read aloud from transcripts from Draco’s original trial, when he had been sentenced to exile, with sneering glee. There was even a statement from Miles, attesting to Draco’s lack of credibility and “dangerous tendencies.”

In the end, though, it was unanimous: Draco would not be returning to Azkaban. He would be moving into a Ministry-approved apartment near Diagon Alley. He would be looking for a job — low-paying, likely, but a place to start. He would be checking in weekly with an Auror named Eliza Woods, whom Harry knew from training and who had become a fierce proponent of the whole idea. Best of all, Draco would get to visit Viola whenever he wanted, and could work toward officially adopting her as her primary caretaker after a year was up.

Harry caught up to Draco outside the Ministry. The blond man seemed dazed, and he startled slightly when Harry came up to him. Without thinking too much about it, Harry wrapped him in a hug.

“Really, Potter, you’re causing quite a scene,” Malfoy drawled, but he was smiling. Harry thought he didn’t seem to be able to help it.

“Ron’s been cooking all day,” Harry said quietly. “Are you ready for dinner?”

Draco’s eyes were shining, but he suddenly bit his lip. Harry bumped his shoulder. “Don’t even start that. She’ll be so happy to see you.”

She was. As soon as Draco stepped through the door, Viola launched herself into his arms and would not let go. They spoke together quietly in rapid Spanglish as Harry helped Hermione set the table. He kept looking over at them with a warm, blossoming feeling in his chest. Draco looked back at him at one point and then quickly away again, blushing.

It was late by the time they left Ron and Hermione’s. Draco was promising Viola that he would be back tomorrow, and that she could come have a sleepover at his new apartment very soon. Harry dawdled at the door until he could walk out with Draco.

“How does it feel, to be back in England?” Harry said finally, a little awkward as they walked down the stairs.

“I’ve been back in England for months, Potter, and it’s been terrible.” Draco looked up at the stars and smiled suddenly, his eyes crinkling. “But things are looking up.”

“Yeah. Good. That is – I’m glad –” Harry grimaced. “I’m rubbish at this, aren’t I?”

“At talking? Yes, I’ve always thought so,” Draco said. His whole attention was on Harry now. Harry felt a little drunk with it.

“Where should we have lunch tomorrow?” he said lamely, then cursed inwardly as Draco’s brow furrowed.

“Actually, I don’t know. I’m very busy, you know.” He suddenly looked a little lost. “And you don’t have to. I mean, now that I’m out –”

“Draco, I want to,” Harry said earnestly, then added quickly: “If you want me to.”

Draco bit his lip. “I want you to,” he said carefully. Harry beamed.

“Then it’s a date.”

“A date,” Draco said flatly. Harry nodded firmly.

“You’re familiar with the concept, I assume?” he asked with a mocking grin. Draco rolled his eyes.

“Yes, Potter, I know the general idea. I just didn’t think it customary to date someone when all you’re really interested in doing is shagging them.”

Harry barked a laugh. “Where on earth did you get that idea, Malfoy? That I’m only interested in shagging you?”

“I just assumed,” Draco said flatly, starting to turn away. “And thanks all the same, Potter, I’m very flattered, but I’m really more the relationship type, so –”

Harry stepped in front of him, blocking Draco’s exit. “Stop doing that,” he said gently. “You always do that.” Malfoy drew back, affronted and prickling.

“Do what?” he asked, looking down his long nose at Harry. Harry wanted to eat him.

“Not let me say what I want to say,” responded Harry. He was crowding into Malfoy’s space and Malfoy was letting him, just watching him.

“Because I always know what you’re going to say, Potter,” he said, sounding bored. There was nothing bored about his eyes, though, trained avidly on Harry’s lips.

“What if you’re wrong?” Harry whispered. “Am I so predictable?”

“Only because I am,” Draco countered, his voice lowering. “And I think you’ve made your feelings about me and my choices very clear over the years. No need to reopen old wounds.”

“Do I wound you, Malfoy?” Harry asked quietly, moving even closer. The other man’s eyes flicked up to meet his, and Harry was taken aback at the depth of sadness he saw there.

“Constantly,” Malfoy whispered back.

Then Draco stepped forward and suddenly their lips were against each other and Harry let his hands roam up Malfoy’s back with a joy like a dam bursting, days – years? – of pressure finally releasing in a delicious breath. Malfoy – Draco – was crowding up against him and Harry’s arms were full of soft, pale skin and Draco’s thin hips and his hair – oh god – his hair was a revelation, and Harry wanted to sink into this moment and never leave, never have it end –

Draco pulled away. Harry made a small, complaining sound in the back of his throat and opened his eyes to find Draco watching him. He looked astonished.

“You really do like me,” he whispered. Harry rolled his eyes.

“I really do, you idiot,” he said, and then he kissed Draco.

This second kiss was like flower petals unfurling, like wide open fields, like sunlight on deep water. Like a journey just beginning. Like home.

It lasted a long time. When they finally came up for air, Harry couldn’t seem to stop smiling.

“Is this ok?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” Draco said, a little breathless. He smiled, said again: “Yes.”

Fin.