Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Grace is given for that which cannot be forgiven.

*

Part I

*

“I can’t believe we’re even considering this,” said Penelope to the instructors of the Auror Academy seated around the table.

“We’re done considering it,” Baggot said wearily. “The war is long over, Clearwater. You’d do well to remember it.”

“You’d do well to remember that there was a war in the first place,” said Savage, who had become an instructor after her retirement. “I didn’t see you there fighting He Who Must Not Be Named.”

“He must be named,” said Baggot, who had been in the US, liaising with MACUSA during the second Wizard War. “His name was Voldemort.”

Savage shuddered, and several faces around the board room table went pale.

In a room full of people, the amount of oxygen slowly dwindled as people breathed in oxygen and released carbon dioxide. Harry could feel his lungs struggling, his heart beating harder as though to compensate, heat beginning to press at his temples, squeezing slowly.

Baggot was a good-looking man with a very broad frame, a round face, bright blue eyes, who said in his gentle-giant voice, “Get over it.”

“Right,” said Savage. “What’s a little war and blood massacre between friends?”

“We’re not talking about ancient history,” said Penelope, whose voice was always surprisingly strident coming from her slight frame. After having trained to become an Auror, she had been in the field ten years before deciding to become an instructor at the Academy. “We’re talking about Draco Malfoy’s application to the Academy. I think it’s absurd.”

“He passed the exam,” said Baggot. “Our policy is to admit—”

“He barely passed the exam,” said Penelope, “and our policy is to train the next generation of Aurors to protect the wizarding world from corruption and crime. We really think Draco Malfoy is going to be a shining example of magical justice? Let’s go re-admit Dawlish, shall we?”

“Dawlish wasn’t responsible for his actions during the war. He was under Confundus,” said Savage, and Penelope whirled on him.

“Dawlish was a collaborator,” she snapped.

Harry wanted to leave his body, the hot tug of blood in his cheeks, his hot breath, sweat beginning at his under arms. He imagined himself somewhere colourless, cool, gray—like a Penseive, inside a memory. As soon as he pictured this, he remembered another table, another time.

“And where were you?” Savage demanded of Penelope. “While I was in the Order of the Phoenix, where were you?”

“Attending Academy,” Penelope told Savage, “so I could become an Auror and fight. Are you really going to condemn me because I was too young to fight your battles?”

“And let’s face it,” said Dirk Spragg, who was the youngest Academy faculty member. He’d never been an Auror but had read in Magical Law at Avalon and had published several well-known books on the subject. “We can hardly say the Auror Force is a ‘shining example of magical justice’ now.”

“Sod off,” Penelope told Spragg, at the same time as Savage told him, “Fuck you.”

Spragg’s voice had a pleasant cadence that always made it sound like he was saying something deeply meaningful, and Harry was still remembering another table, inside a Pensieve, only now he was beginning to recognize it. At the Trials the memories of the Death Eaters had been projected into the room, and Harry sometimes remembered them as though he had been there. At times, he had; at the trials, he’d seen Cedric’s death through seven pairs of eyes.

“It’s true,” Spragg said, in his young, passionate voice. “I don’t see any Aurors questioning any Revealers about the latest ward-drop. How is that making the world safer for Vulnerables?”

“We call them Muggles,” said Savage.

“That’s a slur,” said Spragg.

“Calling Muggles ‘Vulnerables’ is a slur,” said Savage.

“It’s the same old story,” said Povey, another instructor. “Over and over and over again. Do we have to have this argument every time?”

Harry didn’t want to look around the room. He didn’t want to look around the table and see the faces of Death Eaters, the Muggle Studies professor suspended over them.

Penelope leaned across the table toward Spragg. “Aurors are a little busy protecting the wizarding world from dark wizards to question your political opponents, Instructor Spragg.”

“Pardon me, but there aren’t dark wizards any more, Auror Clearwater,” said Spragg. “They’re a fever dream made up by the people who want to keep fighting a war that’s already over—people who miss the glory days when they thought they fought the good fight.”

“We did fight the good fight!” Savage thundered, and Harry saw her anyway: Professor Burbage, suspended over the table. Harry closed his eyes.

“Seventeen years ago,” said Spragg.

“So we’ll just pretend Draco Malfoy was never a Death Eater, won’t we?” said Penelope. “Just let bygones be bygones.”

Behind his eyes, Harry could still see her—Professor Burbage, begging Professor Snape. Count your breaths. The thought came in Kavika’s voice. Note your surroundings. Ground yourself.

“Draco Malfoy was a child,” Spragg said. “Children deserve forgiveness.”

“Draco Malfoy let Death Eaters into Hogwarts,” Penelope said. “He’s the reason—”

“Hogwarts was a terrible place for children!” Spragg sneered, and Harry could feel his blood pumping, pumping, pumping, too hot.

“Is nothing sacred to you, Spragg?” Savage wanted to know, her face twisted with fury. “Hogwarts is central to the traditions of—”

“Oh yes, Hilda,” Spragg said. “And Dumbledore was a god.”

Savage leapt from her chair. “Dumbledore was a fucking hero who died to save us!”

“And who was there in the end?” Penelope demanded. “Who was with Dumbledore on that Tower?”

Severus, please, Dumbledore had said on that Tower, but his was not the voice that Harry heard. Instead he heard Charity Burbage, because she was right above them, and her last words had been the same. Severus, please. Please.

“Draco Malfoy, that’s who,” said Penelope, and several people clamored to reply:

Spragg. “It wasn’t his—”

Povey. “Why can’t we just—”

Baggot. “It’s already been—”

Severus. Please.

“Excuse me,” Harry said, standing abruptly. Professor Burbage was screaming, and yet Harry managed to push back his chair calmly, stand, and walk out of the room, leaving the memory behind, alone with them, pleading with them. He walked out of the conference chamber into what should have been fresh air, but it wasn’t; the air was still too hot. He needed to be not here.

Outside there is more oxygen, Kavika had once explained. The people who take it up are spread farther apart, and there are grass and trees and other vegetation that release it into the air as waste. Harry propelled himself through the stone corridor, pushing the brass handle on the heavy wood door, taking the three stone steps to the vestibule, another door, then outside. Outside. Fresh air.

Outside was raining, the last of April a chill mist that washed over Harry’s skin. He wanted it in his mouth. He wanted it all the way inside him, until his chest was full of cool gray nothing, soft and muted, nothing.

Cloisters ran along the inner courtyard of Bickford-Buckley Hall, stone benches interspersed between the colonnades, but Harry chose another bench near the center of the yard. The rain was so light he almost couldn’t feel it, and here he was closer to the Timothy Tree. The bark was smooth at the base, where so many had tried and failed to scale it, and Harry felt like he could breathe the life of the wood, old and sturdy and ignorant of fleeting human lives.

Harry didn’t know how long he sat, using the techniques Kavika had given him words for: notice where you are. The bench was cold under him; he could feel it through his jeans. It should be wet, but he couldn’t feel that, so he put his hands on either side of his thighs to wrap around the edge of the bench and squeeze. It was stone. Porous. Not as wet as he would have thought.

Is there a smell? Harry closed his eyes: rain and dirt and leaves. Growing things. An early hint of honeysuckle.

What does it sound like? Harry strained to hear the rain, but it was too soft, though now that he listened, he could hear a thip thip thip on the Timothy Tree, where the rain puddled in a leaf loosed fat drops one by one onto a leaf below.

“I thought I would find you here.”

Harry opened his eyes, and Penelope came to sit with him on the bench.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

I haven’t got to taste yet, Harry thought, but Penelope meant well. She had come to check on him. Don’t be afraid to let people know what you’re experiencing, Kavika said.

“Sometimes I just feel like I need to get away,” Harry said.

“Oh, I know,” said Penelope. “Can you believe Baggot? Spragg, you expect it, but you’d think a bloke Baggot’s age would know better.”

This is not away, Harry felt, but she was being kind. She was being kind and didn’t understand what he had said.

“I just can’t believe this Malfoy business,” Penelope went on.

Harry squeezed the bench some more, distracting himself from the way heat began to claw into his face again, from the way breathing became difficult once more. Don’t be afraid to let people know what you need. “I don’t want to talk about it,” Harry said.

“Me neither.” Penelope was always pristinely put together, her hair pulled back from her face, her robes in the latest wizarding style, but though she was small her features were not delicate, and just now the wrinkle in her brow bespoke her frustration. “It’s a plate and a half of bollocks. How could the Board approve his application? And now we’re expected to look at him every day when the term starts? A Death Eater at Auror Academy. Next we’ll be saying Grindewald had a point. Aside from all of that, wasn’t he a prat to you at school? Malfoy, I mean.”

The pressure around Harry’s throat tightened. “Yes,” he said, hoping this was enough.

“I’ll bet the Board are the sort who just want to go back to the way things were before the war,” Penelope went on. “’Things used to be so good before we were so divided’; ‘remember when we all used to work together?’ and that rot. I wouldn’t be surprised if the lot of them were Concealers.”

“Mm.”

“It makes sense,” said Penelope. “The Board’s old wizard money, aristocrats—Bickford, Fudge, Pillwickle, that lot. Of course, they want to keep the status quo; taking down the secrecy wards and revealing the wizarding world to Muggles would be a disaster for them—and people like Spragg play right into their hands. Spragg thinks he’s keeping the poor innocent Muggles safe from our nasty magic ways. He doesn’t realize he’s completely buying into the underlying Concealer agenda to keep bloodlines Muggle-free.”

Harry couldn’t feel the coolness of the bench any more.

“It’s disturbing how many kids have bought into it,” said Penelope. “I understand Granger’s case about going slow and getting a plan in place before we do the Reveal, but I’m beginning to think whoever’s destroying the secrecy wards has got the right idea. Just theoretically, of course. Why not just rip the wards off? Like a bandage. At least then Concealers don’t get their way.”

“I’m not feeling well,” Harry said finally. “I think I need to go home.”

“Oh!” Penelope’s face immediately broke into an expression of concern. “Of course! Are you sick? Do you want me to call Gareth? We could—”

“No,” Harry said, standing carefully. “I just need to go home.”

“Okay,” Penelope said. “I’ll let the others know. Get some rest, all right?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, exiting the Academy grounds before he Apparated.

*

“We haven’t talked about Draco Malfoy very much,” said Kavika. She was a wide woman with greying black hair, which she usually kept tied in a messy knot at the nape of her neck.

When Harry first started coming for his appointments, he would pace the office, hands too twitchy. He’d since managed to sit down regularly in one of her over-stuffed chairs, letting the cushion press against him so that some of his movement was restricted. His hands he placed on his knees, watching them sometimes to see that they were still.

“You mean we should talk about him,” Harry said.

“Do you want to talk about him?” said Kavika.

“Not really.”

Kavika said nothing, an unspoken commentary, and Harry sighed. Then he thought about why he didn’t want to talk about Malfoy and crossed his legs. Uncrossed them. He couldn’t move in these chairs. “Malfoy brings it all back,” Harry said finally.

“The war?”

“Yeah. That happened. So did Hogwarts.”

“Hogwarts happened.” Kavika’s voice was nothing like a stereotype, neither soft nor particularly kind. Rough with age or maybe cigarettes, there was a croaking deepness that felt real instead of clinical or sweet. “Have you talked to any of your friends about Draco joining the Academy?”

“You’re going to tell me I should.” Harry crossed his legs again.

“I’m not going to tell you anything.”

“Yeah.” Harry uncrossed them. “Neat trick.”

“It’s not a trick,” Kavika said, unnecessarily.

Pressing his lips together, Harry looked down, nodded. “I should tell them. I was going to tell them,” he added, “about our murdered Muggle Studies professor hanging above a table of Death Eaters. It just didn’t seem like a good dinner conversation.”

“Maybe save it for lunch,” Kavika said, and Harry felt himself smile. “When will you talk to them about Draco?”

Harry wanted to reach up and rub his scar on his forehead, but instead he rubbed the scar on his hand—a habit he’d developed long after either scar stopped hurting. He never used to be a fidgeter, but he thought about it now, why he was doing it. It was because he didn’t want to think about Malfoy.

So Harry thought about Malfoy. Tall. Rather inelegantly tall—gangly, bony, angles everywhere with only the dark hollows under his eyes for softness. Hair that had dulled since school, if the photos in the papers were any indication, his lips unpleasantly thin, his nose still long and sharp. Harry imagined Draco Malfoy and tried to determine how he felt about him, but all that remained in the wake of far too many feelings was exhaustion, an anger that had long since faded to indifference, and perhaps a little pity.

Feeling nothing doesn’t mean there’s nothing to feel, Kavika had once said. Think instead what the nothingness might cover.

“There’s history,” Harry heard himself say. “Of course there’s history, but there’s important history, and then there’s . . . Draco Malfoy was nothing. In the scheme of things. He was wasn’t an enemy. He wasn’t strong enough, or important enough. He wasn’t a rival or a friend or a traitor or a murderer. He was just . . . he was—Dudley. He was Dudley, only thinner and more posh.”

“Dudley didn’t let Death Eaters into Hogwarts,” Kavika pointed out.

“Right.” Harry saw Malfoy’s gangly figure again in his mind’s eye and struggled with indifference; he must feel something. He had to feel something; Malfoy had called Hermione a Mudblood, tried to get Hagrid fired, stepped on Harry’s face, tried to murder Dumbledore. Malfoy had tried to murder Dumbledore, but when Harry about that Tower, he could only remember Snape and Albus, the Death Eaters coming up the stairs. “Malfoy doesn’t matter to me,” Harry said at last. “He’s not my responsibility.”

“What is your responsibility?”

Harry thought about what he could change, what he could influence, the power that he had. “Myself,” he said finally.

Kavika smiled. “That’s so good Harry,” she said, in her gravelly voice. “And what do you want for yourself?”

Harry thought about it. He’d been thinking about it for a long time, because this was not Kavika’s first time asking, and sometimes he said different things: peace. A different history. Sleep without the nightmares. A world without the concept of blood purity. “I want the past to stay the past,” he said finally. “I want now to be now, and for me to just—live, somehow, here and now.”

“You want to move on,” said Kavika.

“I’m trying,” said Harry.

*

Term opened on a cold day in September, when the leaves on the Timothy Tree were half bleeding into a vibrant scarlet. It started a day earlier for Level One, orientation consisting of tours of Bickford-Buckley and Leck, an overview of policies, and an introduction to the instructors and their courses. Today reporters crowded around Pallas Arch, attempting to capture photographs, perhaps, of Draco Malfoy attempting to climb the Timothy Tree. Legend said the tree would know whether the heart of a disciple was true, only allowing the most virtuous trainee to scale its branches. Few had ever done it.

Harry didn’t know whether Malfoy made the attempt. The reporters had already tried to corner him, but Harry had become good at evading them—and ignoring Malfoy, apparently. At first, Harry hadn’t even noticed Malfoy among the trainees when he introduced ADADA and Wandless Combat, only eventually becoming aware of the dull head that rose a good two inches above any other of the trainees. Still lanky and absurdly bony, Malfoy had not got any fitter.

After Harry dismissed the initiates, Malfoy left, but a group still lingered. Harry knew why. He just didn’t want to have to deal with it.

“Is it true you defeated the Dark Lord with a disarming spell?” one of the trainees asked, inevitably.

“I’m not taking questions,” Harry told the trainee.

“I just wanted to say, sir,” another initiate said, “I heard the admin had to send Draco Malfoy’s application up through the Board for approval, and I think it’s wrong they’ve done it. They should’ve sent him to prison, just like they should have the rest of his lot.”

The initiate was likely just eighteen, barely out of Hogwarts, stars still in his eyes over the thought of being taught by Harry Potter. It’s okay to feel frustration, said Kavika. It’s okay to have feelings.

I don’t have any feelings, Harry wanted to say. I don’t have any feelings. I don’t have any feelings. I don’t have any feelings.

“After what he did to you,” said another girl, black-haired and freckled, so young.

“Draco Malfoy wasn’t any older than him,” said another initiate, a girl with glasses and red robes. “And the war is over.”

“Draco Malfoy is a criminal,” said the first boy.

“And Auror Potter isn’t?” said the glasses girl. “I heard he cast Crucio. In fact, I heard he cast a curse on Draco Malfoy that—”

“You’re not here for stories of my school years.” Harry didn’t raise his voice, but silence usually fell when he talked anyway. “I’m not here to talk about them. I save that for my therapist.” Harry waited for the nervous laughter, which came like a slowly lapping wave, then quickly faded. “I’m here to teach you how to protect yourself. If you have questions about that, ask away. As for questions about Voldemort—”

Someone gasped. They’d probably been a year old when the Dark Lord rose; they had no good reason to fear the name.

“—if you have any question about him, or my time in school, you’re obviously more interested in becoming a historian than an Auror. I’ll talk to the Board and have you removed from my classes. You lot are onto Instructor Baggot, now,” Harry said, turning away. “Have a nice day.”

*

Harry stayed in his office until late afternoon, preparing for the next day of courses. He wanted a breath of fresh air, but Apparition was impossible within the grounds of the Academy, and orientation day was only just over. Initiates would still be hanging about, and Harry didn’t want to see them.

First of the term, before the trainees came to know him, was always hardest. Getting an answer to a question from a famous person was a prize, a privilege, something to win, and so many people wanted to win—to win him or win against him. The problem was that Harry couldn’t even blame them. To them he was not a person; he was an icon. That was how they taught about the war in school, in the books. When were all these children meant to realize he was a human being? They didn’t mean to hurt him, and they were so young. They didn’t know what it had been like. He should allow them their curiosity. Allow them their innocence. Allow them to learn and ask and know and take from him, take from him, take from him.

Harry leaned his head against the windowpane, feeling the cool glass. Allow yourself pain, Kavika said. Allow yourself to feel hurt. Harry wished he had a coffee.

The door thumped thrice, someone knocking. It wasn’t fair to shut them out when all they wanted was to understand. It wasn’t fair to expect them to understand he needed to be alone. It wasn’t fair to be unkind. You don’t owe them, Harry remembered, just as he said, “Come in.”

The door opened to Draco Malfoy.

Dammit.

Malfoy looked perfectly at ease, practically lounging in the doorframe, and Harry went straight back seventeen years. Draco Malfoy’s father was still on the board at Hogwarts, and Malfoy’s mother probably still sent Malfoy chocolates even in his thirties. “I know you don’t want to see me,” Malfoy said at last, his voice almost mocking as he came farther into the office.

Harry thought his expression was enough of a reply, but then again, Malfoy wasn’t looking at him. He was strolling about Harry’s office, looking at the shelves, acting as though he owned the place.

Having assessed the office, apparently, Malfoy slipped his hands in his pockets and turned to face Harry once more. “This has nothing to do with you.”

The exhaustion Harry had felt all day settled all the way down to his bones, radiating from his spine to his limbs.

“Of course, I know how it looks,” Malfoy went on. “Ex-Death Eater and wizard wunderkind meet once more, arch enemies back to school, an epic rivalry for the books. It’s poetic; it’s justice; it’s like a story. I get it. The press eats it up.” Malfoy moved to the window, on the other side of Harry, looking down on the green. “I’m not here for that. It’s not redemption, and it’s not payback.” Straightening, Malfoy turned back toward Harry. “It has nothing to do with you, or the war. I’m here to make a life. I want to move on.”

Harry stared at him.

“That’s all,” Malfoy said. “That’s what I came to say. Have you got anything?”

Harry stared at him.

“Excellent. Do you think we can manage the whole term without ever speaking to each other at all? I think we can. It’ll be fantastic. I’ll pretend you don’t exist. Have a good day,” said Malfoy, spinning on a heel.

Before Harry could formulate a reply, Malfoy left the room, leaving Harry alone with his cool window and his thoughts.

*

“How do you feel about that? What Draco said to you?”

“About moving on?” Harry was once again ensconced in the chair in Kavika’s office, hands folded in his lap this time, lit by the warm glow of Kavika’s magic lamps. “Sounds nice.”

Kavika gave him a small smile, a twist of her dark red lips. “How is has he been in your classes?”

“So far?” About three weeks of classes had passed, and Harry thought about them. “Unimpressive.”

“Did you expect him to be impressive?”

Harry looked around the room—at the rust-coloured tapestry hanging on the wall, leading the eye to the intricately patterned rug on the floor. Everything in the office had some sort of fabric or cushion to soften it, and Harry made himself answer the question at last. “In school he was a prat, you know. You may have heard? Tried to murder my best friend, get my favorite professor fired, that sort of thing.”

Kavika raised a brow. “And this impressed you?”

Her little joke deserved a smile, and Harry wearily gave her one. “No. I guess . . . he was loud. And bossy. Malfoy . . . he called attention to himself. He doesn’t now. He’s almost . . .” Harry waved a hand. “His marks are terrible. But other than that, he’s almost . . . forgettable.”

“That surprises you?”

“Right.” Harry nodded. “It shouldn’t.”

“Why shouldn’t you be?”

“War changes you,” Harry said. “There’s no reason it shouldn’t have done, to him.”

“Harry.” Kavika seemed to hesitate. “There’s no need for you to make allowances for Draco Malfoy. Like you said—there’s no reason for you to have thought about him at all.”

Harry shook his head. “Malfoy was a child. I should have known he could change. I should have known. Maybe we could even get along. Maybe we could be best friends. I shouldn’t—”

“Don’t.”

The sadness in Kavika’s voice made Harry’s gaze snap back to her.

“You don’t need to forgive Draco Malfoy,” Kavika said.

“I know,” Harry said, startled.

“Even had he not let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, he was your childhood bully,” Kavika said. “He was cruel to you. And your friends.”

“I told you he doesn’t really matter,” Harry said.

“Harry,” Kavika said, leaning toward him, lines etched in her brow. “Do you think that you don’t matter? That the pain he caused you, that the ways he hurt and scarred and scared you—that that is negligible?”

“He didn’t really hurt me,” Harry said, still a little surprised. “He wasn’t significant enough to hurt me.”

“You told me he was Dudley,” Kavika said, her voice sinking quite low, “only thinner and more posh. You’re allowed to feel the same as you did before. You’re allowed to be angry.”

“You don’t think Malfoy should have been admitted,” Harry said slowly. “To Auror Academy.”

Sitting back in her chair, Kavika said, “I’ve told you these sessions weren’t about me.” She still sounded sad. “What I think doesn’t matter.”

“Right,” Harry said, “but you think it was wrong.”

Kavika looked away. “I’m going to make coffee,” she said, standing. “Do you want your usual?”

Harry felt himself smile, even knowing she couldn’t see it. “That’s not fair.” She knew even the faint whiff of coffee threw him off any other scent.

“I don’t play fair,” Kavika said, waving her wand to grind the beans, then to move them to the copper pot and boil the water. “Does it surprise you I think he shouldn’t have been admitted? You know my political views.”

“I just didn’t know you had any about Draco Malfoy.”

“I don’t.” Kavika cast the spell to heat the water again. “Not specifically. But you know I thought the Death Eaters should have received harsher punishment.”

“Malfoy was a child,” Harry pointed out.

“You also know some of what I think the wizarding world does to children,” Kavika said, spelling the water from the pot to the cup, then bringing it by hand to Harry. “You know I wish it had been kinder to you.”

“Thank you,” Harry said.

“You don’t have to forgive Draco Malfoy,” Kavika said again, spelling coffee into her own cup, then returning to her seat facing his. “You only have to deal with him. If I had had my way,” she added, taking a sip, “you wouldn’t have to do that either.”

“If I’d had my way, I’d be dead.” Harry sipped his coffee. “I guess it’s good we don’t always get what we want.”

“No.” Kavika smiled. “It’s good you don’t always. I, on the other hand . . .”

“You know,” Harry said, sipping his coffee. “Some of us are moving on. Maybe you should too.”

*

The flying field at the Academy was state of the art, complete with broom and carpet courses as well as Bludger pitchers and Snitch dispensers. Though the field was meant for trainee practice and the Defensive Riding course, Harry often flew there before teaching. Flying calmed him, clearing his mind so he was ready to face his students. They were not a particularly challenging cohort this year. As Harry had told Kavika, not even Malfoy was a problem, though he had fallen behind the other trainees.

Harry wasn’t sure whether he should do anything about that. He didn’t exactly fancy giving Malfoy special attention, but he usually tried to help trainees who were struggling. Was Malfoy struggling? Maybe he was just being a prat. Maybe Kavika was right, and Harry shouldn’t even have to deal with him. Maybe Harry could go back to the Board and tell them Malfoy was a terrible student, that Malfoy’s application should never have been approved in the first place. He was Harry Potter; they would listen. He shouldn’t have to—

You can use your name, Kavika had told him once. Why not? But if you use it to hide behind, one day you’ll have to hide from it as well.

Harry stayed out for longer than he should have, not thinking about Malfoy in particular, but thinking that he could get what he wanted if he demanded it. But was it right? Life had proven that getting what he wanted didn’t always make things easier. He’d got Ginny, and look how that had turned out.

Though Harry had bundled up for his morning flying, the October morning was not as chilly as he had expected. When he finally landed, he’d broken a sweat, and it didn’t help that the halls of Bickford-Buckley were magically heated. By the time he reached south end, he’d Banished his hat, coat, scarf, shirt, even socks and trainers. He needed to be able to move for his next class, so he transfigured his jeans, leaving him only in tracksuit bottoms, vest, and silver locket—the one Ron and Hermione had given him after he had quit the Aurors.

Harry had never been all that punctual, and his thoughts while flying plus the change of clothes meant that he was most likely late—a fact that was supported by the entire class turning to look at him when he flung open the classroom door. “Sorry,” he said, half for the tardiness and half for the bang of the door. “You could have started without me,” he added. “I can make you better at wandless combat, but I can’t actually warm up anyone else but myself.”

Someone tittered—maybe because of the poor joke, or maybe because he was so obviously already warmed up; Harry could still feel sweat at his brow. The trainees turned to the warm-ups he’d taught them, however—or most of them. Malfoy stood there staring at Harry as though he’d grown a second head.

Harry’s brow raised. “Did you need special instruction, Malfoy?”

“Yes.” Malfoy swallowed quickly. “Special instruction. You can—specially instruct me.”

“In warm-ups?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said again. “Warm-ups. I’m—cold.”

“Not funny.” Harry turned away, because he had been beginning to think that Kavika was right—maybe Malfoy had moved on. Maybe he wouldn’t be a prat. Maybe pigs would fly, and blood purity zealots would move to Antartica. Ignoring Malfoy, Harry began warm-ups of his own.

The six weeks of Wandless Combat focused on disarmament. Today was the first day of hand-to-hand; after that would be a unit on wandless magic, and in the last quarter, they would combine hand-to-hand with wandless magic to create strong defense in situations where a wand could not be used. From the beginning, however, Harry had stressed the importance of warm-ups—partly because wizards just weren’t used to it. When you could use magic for everything, the importance of one’s physical body sometimes got forgot.

“All right,” Harry said, once warm-ups were over. “Everyone pair up. These will be your sparring partners for the next few weeks, so get cozy.”

The trainees began to move—Bennet and Wan forming a pair, Moskowitz and Fairchild, Achar and Fuentes, all the expected pairs—except for Malfoy, who was still just standing about. He looked like he might not have moved since Harry had told him to warm-up. His eyes were still fixed on Harry.

“Malfoy,” Harry called. “Get to it.”

“Right.” Seeming to snap out of it, Malfoy looked about, and yet did not seem inclined at all to move. His expression seemed almost lost. He obviously had not been listening, and Gibson, Adebayo, Hasan and Zane had already found partners. That left Yi and Ewing, who found each other.

“Where’s Travers?” called Harry.

“Sick,” Achar answered. “I think I heard a Whoop-whoop got him.”

Whoop-whoops were pretty nasty, and if that were true, they would have an odd number for at least a few weeks. Harry did what he would have done for any of his other trainees. “All right, Malfoy,” he said, turning back to him. “You’re with me.”

“No, I’m not,” Malfoy said immediately.

For a moment, Harry was caught off guard, and then a sudden silence fell. The eyes of the other trainees turned to them—Harry could always feel it, the way he could always feel when the tension in the room became about him being Harry Potter instead of an instructor, the way everyone watched to see what he would do in a way they watched no one else. He remembered what Malfoy had said: an epic rivalry for the books.

There were books. There were lots and lots of books about Harry Potter, and Draco Malfoy was barely a footnote in most of them. “Do you want to be in this class?” Harry asked, quite gently.

“You can’t kick me out,” Malfoy said, his voice still quick. “I was admitted. My application was approved.”

“I didn’t say anything about kicking you out,” Harry said, his tone still slow and measured. “I asked if you wanted to be here.”

“Of course. Yes. I applied.”

Harry nodded at the spot beside him, in front of the class.

“Oh, there,” Malfoy said, as though he had only just now understood that he was to be Harry’s sparring partner. “Sure, I can go there,” Malfoy went on easily, slipping his hands into the pockets of his track bottoms, meandering in Harry’s direction. “I can be your partner, if no one chose you. I mean, I can see why no one would choose you.” Malfoy glanced around the class, still meandering, voice almost lazy. His gaze went back to Harry. “You’re so—wouldn’t want to seem like a teacher’s pet. No one wants that. I never wanted that. Where do I stand? Here? Okay.” Without waiting for an answer, Malfoy claimed the spot next to Harry, turning to face the class as though to thank his audience.

I thought you wanted to move on, Harry wanted to say, but he ignored Malfoy, instead turning to the class. “I’m going to demonstrate a series of holds,” he said, “and then we’ll work on how to get someone into those holds. That way, you know where you want to get at the end of each bout. Okay, Malfoy,” Harry said, turning back to him. “Keep your body nice and loose for this.”

“Not a problem,” Malfoy quipped. “My body is always nice.”

“Sure,” Harry said, because Malfoy’s body was obviously not very nice at all. “Remember our rules for the class—never move against your partner without being quite sure they’re ready; never touch them without letting them know what you’re about to do. Okay, Malfoy,” Harry said again. “I’m going to come behind you and put an arm around you, and then my other arm is going to come around your neck. Is that okay?”

A long pause ensued. Malfoy didn’t seem to be paying attention.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, trying not to sound impatient.

“Hm?”

“Is that okay?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be? It’s perfect. Just what I’ve always wanted. I’m—” Malfoy seemed about to make another quip, then seemed to think better of it. Drawing himself up, squaring his shoulders, he said only, “I’m ready.”

“All right.” Carefully, telegraphing his movements, Harry stepped behind Malfoy, then wrapped put his hand on Malfoy’s waist to slide his arm around him.

Malfoy jumped, and Harry immediately let go. “Sorry,” Malfoy said quickly, moving back into Harry’s space. “You can—you can do it.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asked.

“Yes. I’m—yes.”

Perhaps Malfoy was thinking about their “epic rivalry,” or whatever nonsense, or perhaps Malfoy was actually afraid. Indeed, Malfoy had been quite terrified of Harry more than several times in school. Either way, Harry didn’t want to cause a scene. Still standing behind him, Harry kept his voice low and soft, just for Malfoy’s ear. “Malfoy, are you—”

“It’s my reflexes,” Malfoy said loudly. “Can’t control them. They’re too fast. Lightning quick.”

“Sure,” Harry said again, expelling a breath.

Malfoy shuddered—probably didn’t want Potter-breath on him, or similar rot; it was amazing how all the sudden being around Malfoy made Harry feel as though nothing at all had changed since school. So much for ignoring each other. “I’m going to put my arm around you,” Harry reminded him again.

“Yep,” Malfoy said, as Harry’s hand slid around his waist. Malfoy fell silent after that, strikingly stiff against Harry’s arm and chest.

“Jesus, Malfoy,” Harry muttered. “I’m not going to curse you.”

“Mm,” Malfoy said but did not relax a fraction.

“Now I’m going to put my other about your neck,” Harry said, then spoke over Malfoy’s shoulder to the class. “Remind your partner what you’re going to do when you’re going slow. When you practice, everything should feel comfortable. Malfoy,” Harry added, very softly, “relax.”

“I’m . . .” Relaxed, Malfoy was going to say. Harry could practically taste the word from behind Malfoy, along Malfoy’s jaw, in Malfoy’s chest, but Malfoy was breathing too hard to say it. Harry let him go.

“That was a simple chokehold,” Harry told the class. “Thanks for helping demonstrate.” Harry turned to Achar and Fuentes, who were working near the front. “Achar, can you pair up with Malfoy? Fuentes, you can demo our next hold.”

“My reflexes are too fast,” Malfoy told the class loudly. “And I’m too tall. That’s something for the history books—Auror Potter likes shorter partners. You heard it from me first.”

“I like all kinds of partners,” Harry told Malfoy flatly. “That’s already in the history books.”

A few of the trainees tittered nervously, which was expected. Harry’s fling with Andre Ricci had been all over the news when it had happened. Harry hadn’t really thought of himself as bisexual when it had been going on. He hadn’t really been thinking of anything except for the fact that Andre was the first person since Ginny that he had wanted, but the press had had quite the day defining him, and Harry supposed the definition worked.

The laughter quickly died, and Harry turned to Fuentes. “We’re going to do an armbar next. Are you ready, Fuentes?”

Harry demonstrated the next hold with Fuentes, who next to Malfoy was a star pupil. Meanwhile, Malfoy lagged behind in the practice set, standing there staring before Achar waved a hand in front of Malfoy’s face to get his attention. Harry recalled the way Malfoy had stared at him when Harry had walked in, the way Malfoy was staring now. What if Malfoy still hated him, and that was all this was? It made sense. If Harry had thought Malfoy worth the effort, Harry would have hated him right back.

Harry demonstrated the rest of the holds with Fuentes, then stopped Malfoy before he left for his next class. “See me during office hours,” Harry told Malfoy.

“I’m seeing you right now,” Malfoy said, but Harry was already walking away.

*

Auror Gareth Newcastle had come to chat during Harry’s office hours, wanting to hear Harry’s thoughts on the new developments surrounding the Reveal, which by now was a bit like chatting about the weather. Hermione had made some advancements on the legislation, however, devising a strategy to better ease Muggle and Magical relations during the transition, and now they were waiting once again to hear whether Number Ten agreed. “I’m headed for a coffee,” Gareth said. “Want to come with?”

“I’ve got a student coming,” Harry said, glancing at the clock. His office hours were almost over, and Malfoy still hadn’t come.

“I’ll pick you one up,” Gareth said, just as a knock came at the door.

“Oh, would you?” Harry said. “Come in.”

“What’ll you have?” Gareth said, as Malfoy opened the door.

“Are you going with Penelope?” Harry asked. “She knows my favorite.”

“She’s out today, mate,” said Gareth, while Malfoy slipped his hands in his pockets and swaggered inside.

“Yes, Malfoy, come in, sorry,” Harry said, turning back to Gareth. “It’s a flat white, with an extra shot, and then a small sprinkle of cinnamon.”

“Got it,” said Gareth. “Later, Harry.”

“I’ll take a cortado,” said Malfoy. “Go to La Reve. It’s the best.”

“Slate is better,” said Harry.

Malfoy sniffed. “Their crumpets are terrible.”

“La Reve’s milk is too sweet,” Harry said.

“Get the oat milk,” Malfoy said.

Gareth was looking between them. “Er. I’m going to Costa? It’s closest.”

“If you must,” Malfoy said flinging himself into the chair before Harry’s desk.

Laughing at him, Gareth turned to go. “Close the door,” Harry told him, and Gareth left them alone.

Malfoy had changed into his usual attire, which consisted of finely tailored wizard robes that looked like they were from the sixteenth century. The one today was a deep green with a high collar and lots and lots of laces. It would have looked very nice on someone who didn’t have Draco Malfoy’s unfortunate face. “You wanted to see me?” Malfoy said lazily.

“Yeah.” Harry looked over at him. “You said you wanted to move on.”

“That’s right.”

“Malfoy . . .” Harry waited, because Malfoy had to know why he was here, but Malfoy had fixed his gaze on the Veritascope on Harry’s desk, leaning over to look at it. “You’re failing my course,” Harry said.

“Only one?” Malfoy said, barely looking up at him. “Better than I thought.”

“No, you’re failing both of them.”

“Well, at least I can correctly assess my progress.”

“Malfoy, come off it; don’t touch that.” Harry swatted at Malfoy’s hand, which was reaching out to poke the scope.

“Why, is it ticklish?”

“Why, are you?” Harry said, before he could stop himself.

“Yes.” Sitting up again, Malfoy gave an arrogant little roll of his shoulders. “I bet you’d like to know where.”

“I would not like to know where.”

“You’re talking about earlier today,” Malfoy said.

“I’m talking about the fact that you’re failing my classes.”

“We have chemistry.”

“What?” Harry said, appalled.

“Don’t deny it.”

“Chemistry?”

“We have it.”

“Malfoy—”

“I know it’s strange. Bitter adversaries. Dire foes. To come back together and feel this—”

“You weren’t my adversary,” Harry said.

“Well, not now, but—”

“No,” Harry said slowly. “Malfoy, you were never my adversary. You were . . . an irritant. Someone who got in my way. You fight an adversary, Malfoy. I never even needed to fight you. You just—cried in the the girls’ toilet and ran away when you were frightened.”

“Right.” Malfoy stood up, turning away. “Almost forgot about that.” He wandered away a step or two, and Harry let him, until Malfoy turned back suddenly. “Not even the bitter part? Can we at least say we were—acrimonious acquaintances?”

Harry just looked at him. “Do you need a name for our new superhero team? Because I’m not sure it really matters all that much.”

Malfoy shrugged, a fluid movement. “You’re the one who picked apart my language.”

“Malfoy, you said we had chemistry.”

Malfoy stared at him, long and unblinking, and Harry was a little surprised at how intense that was, considering Malfoy wasn’t an adversary or anything else he apparently aspired to. “My mistake,” Malfoy said suddenly, breaking the strange spell. “Must’ve been something I drank. The cold weather. Touch of the Whoop-whoop.”

Harry raised a brow. “You think you have Whoop-whoop?”

“No. Maybe. I could. What about you?”

Harry looked at him again—Malfoy’s pale, plain face, his gangly figure. “You don’t pay attention in class,” Harry finally said. “Every time I tried to instruct you today, you ignored me or got jumpy; you don’t—”

“I do many things,” Malfoy said lazily. “Ignoring you isn’t one of them.”

“You don’t study,” Harry went on. “You don’t practice. You never speak up in class—”

“You want me to speak up in class?”

“You seem like you don’t even want to be here,” Harry said, “so it’s left me asking—why are you here? You said you want to move on, but with all this—chemistry, or whatever it is—it seems like it’s just holding you back.”

“I practice.”

“What?”

“I practice a lot. I practice all the time.”

Harry frowned. “I’m not seeing evidence of it.”

“Want me to record it? Want to look in my Penseive? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said, still quite patient. “You can’t even cast a Patronus.”

Malfoy flinched. “I’m sorry we can’t all master Dark Arts at young ages and faff about killing Dark Lords when we were seventeen.”

“A Patronus isn’t a Dark Art. And you could have helped.”

“At least my mother is alive,” Malfoy said, lifting his chin.

“Drop out,” Harry said.

Malfoy blinked. “Pardon?”

“Just drop out,” Harry said. “You’re obviously not interested, and I’m not going to pass you. You won’t graduate to Level Two anyway, so drop out now. While you’re ahead.”

“Doesn’t sound like I’m ahead, according to you.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said softly. “I’m not your enemy. I never was. I was trying to help you. I was always trying to help you. I still am.”

“Oh, yes, that time you murdered me in the bathroom was very helpful.”

“I didn’t murder you,” Harry said. “I never tried to murder anyone. Remember?”

“I want to be here,” Malfoy said.

Harry sighed. “I can’t force you to leave.”

“Yes, you can,” Malfoy said quietly. “You’re Harry Potter. You could crush me under your big toe, and no one would care.”

“Your father would,” Harry pointed out.

“Yes.” Sniffing, Malfoy turned away. “Father.”

“All right,” Harry told him. “Well, I’m not going to force you to leave. But maybe it’s time you took a moment and thought about what you really want. Maybe you’ll find you—”

“I think about what I want. I think about what I want all the time.” Malfoy turned back to stare at him again, that unnerving, unblinking stare. “There’s not a minute of any day goes by when I don’t think about what I want and how badly I want it.”

“Fine.” Feeling weary, Harry stood up, turning to the window so he wouldn’t have to look at Malfoy’s exhausting face. “You know what you want. That’s good. But maybe it’s time you start working for it, instead of expecting it to be handed to you like you’re used to.”

Silence from behind him, then, “Is that all?”

Harry sighed again. “Yes, Malfoy. That’s all.”

Malfoy said nothing more, and the door only made a soft click to signify he had gone. Harry could think of nothing he wanted more than a shower, as if hot water could make his exhaustion slip away, and stop him from remembering Hogwarts—how it felt to quarrel with Malfoy in the corridors. The blood dripping down the stones, students turned to stones as well, the Inquisition Squad on patrol, the sickly stench of Snape’s classroom, the warmth of Dumbledore’s office. Dumbledore and death, so many dead.

Remus Lupin wandered the halls of Hogwarts, grey and generally genial. He had always been so gentle, offering chocolate, but he knew he was a ghost now and that the only chocolate he could hold was not real. I’ll fade away when Teddy’s old enough, the ghost had said, but Harry was beginning to think that “old enough” might be never.

Ghosts can never learn anything new, Luna had told him once. They don’t know to stop if something changes. They’re just stuck in the same place, doing the same things, over and over and over. Ghosts don’t rest, she’d said. They haunt.

Harry wasn’t haunted. He could rest. He was allowed to rest.

*

Visits to Kavika always started out pleasant enough—she made coffee or gave Harry a biscuit. He asked about her daughter; she asked about Hermione and Ron, Rose and Hugo. They talked about the weather and the World Cup, and Fortescue’s new flavor. Then she would settle in and say something like, “Any flashbacks, lately?” so casually, as though flashbacks were another flavor of ice cream.

Harry shifted brought his hands up to fidget, then made himself put them back on his knees.

“Have some Magbrick,” Kavika said, holding out a handful.

Magbricks attached magically, so you could build impossible things with them, and sometimes Kavika gave them to him to occupy his hands. “Coffee works better,” Harry said, taking the blocks.

“I try not to enable your addiction.”

Harry glanced up at her. “Or yours?”

“I’m a lost cause.” Smiling, she waited strategically while he pulled the blocks all apart. “Flashbacks?” she said, once they were hovering in a line above his lap.

Maybe he could build a castle. Sighing, Harry waved the blocks away. “I keep thinking about Hogwarts.”

“More than usual?”

“A little.”

“Because of Draco?”

Harry had told her about the conversation he’d had with Malfoy in his office a few weeks ago, when Harry had tried to convince Malfoy to drop out. “I suppose,” Harry said. “He hasn’t done anything.”

“He did plenty to you.”

“I mean, anything new,” Harry said.

“He doesn’t have to do anything new to bother you, Harry,” Kavika said.

The Tiffany lamp on the table cast a magic yellow glow over Kavika’s face, and Harry didn’t want to look at her, her wide mouth, her large, dark eyes. Outside the fire-orange of November leaves stuck to the windowpanes by means of steady rivulets of rain, slowly dripping down to the still. For a while, Harry watched drops trace each other over the glass, sliding like tears over the path of a glass cheek. “I know I’m allowed to be bothered. And angry. I know I’ve been hurt. I know it’s okay not to forgive those who did the hurting. But I just don’t . . . I don’t want to deal with it anymore. I want to move on.”

“That’s understandable,” said Kavika.

“And I don’t want to just keep saying I want to move on,” Harry said, his voice suddenly louder. “I want to be moved on. He’s not important to me. To my life. I don’t care. I want to not care.”

“You can’t.”

“Yeah. Right. Because I haven’t dealt with my trauma, or whatever?” Harry pushed himself out of the chair. “So what, if I just deal with it, it would go away?”

“It’s not ever going to go away,” Kavika said in her low rasping voice. “You know this. I’m very sorry, Harry.”

“Yeah.” Harry went over to the window, leaning his forehead on it to feel the cool glass. “Maybe I should just get rid of him. Malfoy. I could. I wouldn’t ever have to see him.”

“You could,” Kavika agreed.

“Like that,” Harry said, straightening, pulling his head from the window. “That right there. I mean, aren’t you tired of having this conversation? Over and over?”

“You mean you saying you could do something because you’re Harry Potter?”

“And you saying I can use my name, but I shouldn’t use it to hide behind—the same thing, over and over? Don’t you get exhausted? Don’t you wish I would either do something about it, or stop complaining?”

“Do I wish you felt better? That you didn’t have the flashbacks, or trouble sleeping, that you never had attacks, that you had never tried to kill yourself? Yes.” Kavika could be so still sometimes, like an anchor. “But you’re my patient, Harry. You wouldn’t be here if those things had never happened to you. It doesn’t bother me because your conversation annoys me. It bothers me because you are my friend, and things that hurt you also hurt me.”

“I don’t want to hurt anybody.” Harry looked out the window, where the sun was slowly setting somewhere, invisible in the already grey light. “I just wanted to live my life. Like anybody else.”

Kavika stood, coming to stand with him at the window. “Let’s do the exercise. Pretend you did get Draco removed from the Academy. You go to the Board. You tell them about his poor performance. Perhaps you even tell them of your discomfort.”

Harry closed his eyes.

Kavika went on. “They deliberate,” she said. “Perhaps they will take their time. Perhaps a week, perhaps longer. Say a fortnight. After that time, you get a Floo. They’ve agreed to grant your request. Draco Malfoy is removed. The next day you go to class. Draco isn’t there. How do you feel?”

A wave of relief. Then a knot in his stomach.

Harry opened his eyes. “Like I’m going to sick up.”

Kavika nodded. “Very well. Move forward. You teach a week of classes, no Draco. A month. How do you feel at the end of the day? Are you thinking about what you did? Are you reminded of it? What about the other trainees—will they react?”

Harry thought about it, unable to imagine them.

“Will they miss him?” Kavika asked.

Slowly, Harry shook his head. “No. He doesn’t—I don’t think he has friends. Not there, at any rate.”

“And will the trainees ask you where he went?”

“No,” Harry said again. “I told them—well, you know what I told them. At the beginning of term. I’d have them removed if they asked about him.”

“Oh,” said Kavika. “I thought you said you’d have them removed if they spoke of your years at school. During the war.”

“Right, but it . . . well.” Harry his fingers over the scar on his hand, wishing for the blocks again. “I, er. May have scared them a little.” He looked at her with chagrin. “Or a lot. They’re all—they hold their breaths whenever I call on Malfoy in class. Or when he says anything. Or if I say his name.”

Kavika didn’t seem surprised. “And would that stop if you had him removed?”

“Well. I wouldn’t call on him in class.” Kavika smiled at his poor joke but did not speak. Harry glanced down at his hands. “It would happen less. But probably because they’d all assume I’d murdered him.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Amused? Considering the times Malfoy tried to kill me.”

“Yes,” Kavika said gently. “And how it will make you feel in the moment? With all your students assuming you’ve done something terrible?”

“It shouldn’t matter what they assume.”

“I’m not asking how you should feel,” Kavika said. “I’m asking how you would feel.”

Harry looked up at her again, her round face, gorgeous skin, her dark eyes wreathed by her dark lashes. “Like I had done something terrible.”

“And would you also feel relieved?”

Harry rubbed his fist again. “At first.”

“And later?”

“But I shouldn’t feel guilty,” Harry said. “You said it yourself; he was a bully; he let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. He was a—he’s just a—he’s a prat.”

“You shouldn’t feel guilty. He was a prat. You shouldn’t have to forgive a person who did those things. You shouldn’t have to teach him either. Now. How would using your name to have him removed make you feel?”

The rain dripped down the windowpanes. “Like a coward,” Harry finally said.

“And does the relief of having him gone outweigh how bad it could also make you feel?”

One little droplet on the window seemed stuck—going sideways instead of down, then pausing, as though unable to slide against the glass with all the rest of them. Harry watched it until another drop finally joined it, pulling it down to the stone still below. At last he turned back to Kavika.

“Want some coffee?” she said.

“I thought you didn’t want to feed my addiction.”

“But I do want to feed mine,” she said, “and drinking it in front of you would just be cruel.”

“Thanks for that,” Harry said, finally moving away from the window.

*

A few weeks later, after ADADA, Harry asked Malfoy to stay behind again.

“Yippee,” Malfoy said, his affect absolutely flat. “Do I get another very special visit to your office? Another threat to remove me from Academy? I’m that distracting, am I?”

“Yes,” Harry said.

Malfoy brightened, which softened him somewhat, making him look almost pleasant.

“Malfoy, you let that Dementor loose. It almost Kissed five trainees.”

“It attacked me,” Malfoy said quickly.

“Of course it attacked you,” Harry said. “Dementors attacked the class; it was the point of today’s lesson.”

“Keeping unauthorized Dementors is against Wizard law.” Malfoy still spoke fast, as though he had all his defenses lined up, in order.

“Malfoy,” Harry said again, feeling a bit exasperated, “it’s authorized. The Academy authorized it. You think I’m toting about illegal Dementors?”

“Maybe. You like illegal things.”

Harry just gave him a look.

“Wand slipped,” Malfoy said in that light, quick way. “Travers distracted me. Are you sure that kid is all right? Politically, I mean. I think he’s a purist.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said, wearily now. “You’re a purist.”

“How could you?” Malfoy feigned offence. “I thought you’d noticed that I changed.”

“And that’s why your dad contributes so much of the Malfoy fortune to Concealment?”

Malfoy put his nose in the air. “I’m not responsible for my father.”

“That’s it?”

The nose came down. “Pardon?”

“You’re not going to tell me you’re a Concealer so we can protect the precious non-magical people?”

“Hm.” Putting his head to the side, Malfoy appeared to actually consider this. “No.”

Harry didn’t really understand. Every time he thought he could have a normal conversation with Malfoy, Malfoy twisted it into some sort of schoolroom spat, dredging up the past as though it was the only realm in which he was comfortable. “You need to learn how to cast a Patronus,” Harry told him.

“I know how to do it.” The chin went back up.

“And yet you’ve never done it.”

Malfoy looked away.

“I’m not picking on you,” Harry said softly. “Trainees need to be able to cast one. It’s 101.”

“So fail me.” Malfoy shrugged. “You already said you were going to.”

“Yeah, well.” Sighing, Harry walked around to the desk where his schedule book was. “I don’t usually fail students without at least helping them try to achieve success.”

“Mm,” Malfoy purred, moving toward the desk as well. “Know what would really help me achieve success? Maybe give me a few happy memories, Potter. Not all of us have a deep well to draw them from.”

Harry looked up from his schedule. “I should think making me fall off my broom third year gives you all the happy memories you need.”

Malfoy, who had been stalking toward him, stopped dead. “You think that gives me happy memories?”

Shrugging, Harry suggested, “Or maybe the time you stepped on my face?”

Malfoy flinched.

“Calling Hermione names, maybe? That didn’t give you pleasure?”

“I don’t know.” Malfoy tilted his head. “Is reminding me of—all that—is that giving you pleasure?”

“All right.” Harry nodded at him. “You changed. Good for you. Am I supposed to forget it ever happened?”

“Of course not,” Malfoy said easily. “Throw it in my face any time you want. Rub it in. Want me to lie down? You can step on me too.”

“I don’t want to step on you, Malfoy.”

“Don’t you?”

“No! Why can’t you just—” Harry broke off suddenly, feeling the heat begin to rise in his face, that tell-tale feeling like he couldn’t breathe. Notice where you are. Looking around, he saw the classroom. It wasn’t Hogwarts. It wasn’t Hogwarts.

“Potter?” Malfoy’s voice was soft.

“I don’t want to step on you,” Harry said, his voice equally soft. “I’m just . . .” Don’t be afraid to tell people how you feel. “This is hard for me. You and I—it’s hard for me. After what you did to me. To people I love. After what you did at Hogwarts, and in the war.”

Malfoy stared at him, that long, unblinking stare. “I know,” he said, nothing in his face moving besides those thin lips. He didn’t even blink.

“I’m trying,” Harry said.

“You don’t have to.” Malfoy’s voice was as light and quick as ever. “You shouldn’t have to. I was the one that—” Finally, he looked away. “I’ll go. I can drop out. I thought we could—I don’t know what I was thinking. It never would have worked.” Malfoy turned neatly, slipping his hands into his pockets, heading for the door.

Harry grabbed his arm, and Malfoy stopped. Just stopped, standing there, and Harry could feel the velvet of the robe—scarlet today, as though Malfoy was playing Auror dress-up. Harry could hear Malfoy’s breathing go noisy, then remembered Malfoy was scared of him. Harry let him go. “I’m going to help you,” Harry said.

Malfoy took a moment, then turned around, squaring his shoulders. “Right,” he said. “You’re a hero, aren’t you? You’ll always be the bigger person.”

“It’s not so I can be bigger.”

“You are, though. Bigger.”

“All right,” Harry said.

“You think if you forgive me, you’ll prove how good you are? How worthy of all the accolades, all the respect?”

“Malfoy,” Harry said, still feeling weary. “I don’t forgive you.”

“Right,” Malfoy said again. “You’re ‘trying.’”

“Forgiving you isn’t what I’m trying to do.”

“Then what are you trying to do?”

“Live,” Harry said. Sometimes it felt like all he had ever been trying to do.

Malfoy stared at him again. He had a stillness about him; that was what made that stare a little preternatural, a laser focus that made Harry want to get away, and yet there was a softness in Malfoy’s eyes. They almost looked like liquid in this light.

Harry turned away. “I’ve got Advanced Combat this afternoon. See me after, and we’ll work on the Patronus.”

Harry hadn’t been particularly interested in Malfoy’s reply. Either he would come to the practice session or he wouldn’t, but when Harry got to the door of the classroom and Malfoy hadn’t said anything, he glanced back. Malfoy was still just standing there, staring at him, the way that trainees sometimes stared at spells they had never seen before.

It made Harry feel uncomfortable again, and he left the classroom without saying anything more.

*

Trainees had assigned pegs upon which to hang their bags and things, but when Malfoy appeared, hovering by the door as Harry’s students filed out of Advanced Combat, he had a satchel with him. He stayed by the door as the last of the trainees left, looking strangely wide-eyed. “We’re not going to do the practice with the Dementors,” Harry called out, taking off his vest to wipe his face of sweat. “You can come inside the room.”

The training room was long and open, with wood floors and mirrors along one side, which were helpful for correcting stances and demonstrating wand motions. “Well, of course,” Malfoy said, suddenly dropping his bag by the door and coming in farther. “If you want to do it naked; that’s fine. Nudity doesn’t bother me.” He sniffed. “It’s good for you.”

“Nudity?” Harry glanced at himself incredulously in the mirror. He’d intended to Banish the sweat from the vest and put it back on, but just for that, he’d leave it off. “Because I don’t dress like a nun?”

“Magical nuns are very powerful,” Malfoy said primly, looking more than ever like a nun in his high collar.

“All right. Let’s get started.” Summoning his wand, Harry took a solid stance. They should have learned spell-casting stances at Hogwarts, but their DADA teachers had for the most part not been exactly stellar, and Harry had retaught the stances at the beginning of both of his classes. Balance was more important for spell-casting than many people realized.

Drawing his wand from his sleeve, Malfoy settled into the stance as well, albeit stiffly. This was his wont in class, though Harry had noted Malfoy seemed to move around Harry’s office with perfect ease. Perhaps Malfoy was still afraid of the Dementors.

“Now, close your eyes, and look for that memory,” Harry said. “It doesn’t have to be a huge one—a little one is fine, just a time you felt nice. Maybe you got something you wanted, or someone you liked was spending time with you.” Harry waited to see evidence of the memory in Malfoy’s face, but Malfoy’s brow stayed knit, his lips pursed with a little frown.

“Now what?” Malfoy asked, his eyes squeezed closed.

“Have you got it?” Harry asked, surprised. “The memory?”

“Yes.”

Harry looked at him for a moment longer. “No, you haven’t.”

“What? Yes, I have. I have a happy memory right here, waiting to go.”

“What is it?”

Malfoy opened his eyes. “I’m not telling you my memory, Potter.”

“Do you want to pass this class?”

Malfoy stared at him with that thin pale gaze, his thin pale lips pressed into a line. “My mother.”

“That’s good,” Harry said. “What memory with your mother?”

Malfoy opened his mouth. “Well—you wouldn’t know what it’s like, you not having had a mother of your own.”

“Right,” Harry said softly. “So. Tell me.”

Malfoy looked away, sniffing arrogantly. “I was in her lap. She’s telling me I’ll have a wonderful time at Hogwarts. I’ll make plenty of friends. I’ll do so well, and impress everyone, and—there. Is that one you wanted? Irony?”

“Malfoy,” Harry said, frowning. “Why would you choose that memory?”

“That was how it was meant to be,” Malfoy said, sounding so careless that it was obvious he cared a great deal. “It should have been that way.”

“Don’t choose a memory about how it was meant to be happy,” Harry said. “Choose something that was actually happy.”

“Fine. It’s not good enough for you? I’ll choose another.” Turning away, Malfoy took the stance again. “There,” he said, after a few moments. “I’ve got one.”

“That’s not it either.”

“How do you know?”

“You know what?” Harry said. “You should take your clothes off.”

Suddenly Malfoy began to cough, breaking out of his stance to cover his mouth. When he took his hand away, Harry could see Malfoy’s face had gone quite pink. “Pardon?”

“People think casting a Patronus is about intent, like an Unforgivable, or concentration, like Apparition. It’s not. It’s about letting a feeling inside of you escape and take form. To do it, you have to relax. Take that cloak off.”

Malfoy’s eyes locked with Harry’s. Harry was sure Malfoy was going to argue, what with all his pretension toward modesty not five minutes earlier, but instead Malfoy reached for his collar, eyes still fixed on Harry’s. Slowly, he began to unlace it.

Harry rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake, Malfoy. Use a spell.”

“To undress?” Malfoy feigned shock. “A Malfoy would never do anything so uncouth.”

Harry rolled his eyes again. “A Malfoy probably can’t even cast a Patronus.”

“Correction,” Malfoy said, whipping a leather lace through its tiny grommet, then beginning on the next tie. “My father can cast an excellent Patronus. It’s a swan. A magnificent swan.”

“Bully for him.”

“And my mother can cast one too,” Malfoy went on, still untying. “That’s why I know I can do it.”

“Patronuses don’t run in blood, Malfoy.”

“But mine does.” Malfoy had moved to the laces at his wrists, now. “My parents’ Patronuses match, you see. It represents their love. Their devotion to one another. Devotion resulted in me. Magic is very strong in my family, you know. I think the Dark Lord must have done something to you.”

“What?” Harry asked, having become rather mesmerized by the repetition of Malfoy’s bony fingers untying lace after lace.

“I think he did something to you,” Malfoy repeated. “You being Chosen One and all. That’s why your magic is so strong. Otherwise you wouldn’t have stood out so much. You would have been just—normal. You weren’t born exceptional.”

“And you say you’re not a purist.”

“Don’t twist my words,” Malfoy snapped. “We both know Granger’s the strongest one of us, naturally.”

“Do we?” Surprised, Harry looked up to Malfoy’s face, but Malfoy was concentrating on untying. “You know,” Harry said, shifting his weight, “this would go a lot faster if you wore less.”

“Why, Potter,” Malfoy purred.

Harry waited, but Malfoy didn’t say anything else. “And why is it uncouth to use a spell?”

“Pureblood tradition. Not a purist!” Malfoy added, as though sounding like a three-year-old in his denial could poke fun at Harry before Harry even made the accusation. “Just raised that way.”

“Right.” Turning away, Harry Banished the sweat in his vest after all, then put it back on. “Maybe Floo me next century? When you’re done taking off your clothes.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Malfoy said, his voice silky. “You know, 'this would go a lot faster' if I had help.”

“Do you do this to everyone?” Harry said, turning back to him and gesturing. “Or is it just me?”

“You’re very special, Potter.” Malfoy’s voice was soothing, now, before it went flat. “You put on your vest.”

Harry looked down at himself. “Well, if you’re going to take forever, I’ve places to be.”

“Fine.” Picking up his wand again, Malfoy cast untying spells on the remaining laces, then finally hurried out of the wizard robe to shirtsleeves and trousers beneath. “Are you happy?”

“Take that off, too,” Harry said, nodding at Malfoy’s poofy shirt. He looked like a pirate in it, the sleeves billowy and linen so light it was practically translucent.

“This is not how I imagined this moment,” Malfoy said testily, but he proceeded to take off the shirt as well, until he was down to the vest.

“Better?” Harry asked.

Malfoy put out his chin. “No.”

“Think up that happy memory.”

Malfoy was pretending to look aggrieved, but he closed his eyes, his face smoothing into an expression of concentration. Slowly, his body took the stance. Then his brow began to knit, and the frown creased his face again. “All right,” Malfoy said, opening his eyes.

“You have it?” When Malfoy nodded, Harry said, “Now think about that moment. Allow it to wash over you.”

Malfoy closed his eyes again, screwing his face up. “Okay.”

“Relax.”

“I’m relaxed.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Who says?” Malfoy demanded.

“I do,” Harry said. “I just said it.”

“Who made you the authority on relaxation?”

“The Academy,” Harry said. “When they hired me. Also, when I became one of the youngest wizards to cast a Patronus.”

“Show-off.”

Harry swallowed a sigh. “I’m going to come up behind you. Is that all right?”

“Sure.” Malfoy sniffed. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Just for a moment,” Harry soothed. “I’m going to touch your shoulders. Here,” he said, gently putting his hands on Malfoy’s mostly bare shoulders. “They’re up near your ears. See if you can relax enough to drop them.”

Malfoy took a quick breath. Then another, and another, but finally, the shoulders came down. “Good,” Harry said, keeping his hands on them. “Keep them here. Now think about that memory. Don’t just concentrate on it with your mind—let it into your body. Let it enter you. Let it fill you. Let it surround you, become a part of you, so you’re living inside of it, and it’s living inside of you.”

Malfoy’s breath was becoming faster and faster, and Harry remembered the demonstration for Wandless Combat, how Malfoy had been afraid of him. Harry moved away, and Malfoy’s shoulders immediately shot up again as he moved out of the stance completely.

“Shoulders down,” Harry said. “It will help with your breathing too.”

“Could you . . . ?” Delicately, Malfoy’s tongue swiped across his upper lip. He was flushed right down into his white vest; he must be sweating. It wasn’t any wonder, with that heavy robe he had been wearing. “Um, could you—show me again?”

“Show you what?”

“Shoulders. It helped to—feel what you meant.”

Harry eyed him, suspecting Malfoy was playing some sort of trick, but at the same time, Harry remembered the breathing exercises he used to do, placing his hands behind his neck so his arms would pull down on his shoulders. He’d helped other students physically before, showing them stances, helping them get the correct posture, and Harry had decided to treat Malfoy like any other student. He’d decided to forget the collective shite of their past, because that had seemed the best way to move on. He just hadn’t thought Malfoy was going to be such a needy student.

“All right,” Harry said, swallowing another sigh and stepping back toward Malfoy. Harry’s hands settled on Malfoy’s shoulders, and Malfoy took a swift breath, but then made his shoulders drop down.

“And can you, er . . .” Malfoy hesitated. “Can you tell me again? What to do. With the memory. I think it—it helped.”

“All right,” Harry said, because Malfoy sounded earnest, almost vulnerable, both of which made it easy to forget that he was Malfoy. “Pretend the memory could travel down from your head to your heart, then pretend it could radiate from there, and you could feel it. Spreading through your chest. Your arms. Your legs. It can be clean and light—maybe if your memory is joyful. Or it can be warm and heavy, if your memory is soft and comforting. Try to feel it in every part of you, right down to the tip of your wand. All right. Take your stance.”

Almost as though in a trance, Malfoy slowly moved into the stance. The point was relaxation but not to forget everything you’d ever been taught, which was what Malfoy was apparently doing.

“Spread your legs, Malfoy,” Harry reminded him.

Malfoy made a little whining sound.

“Sorry,” Harry said, for distracting him, but Malfoy corrected himself, lifting his wand, elegant and perfect for the spell. “That’s it,” Harry said, because over the years, he’d learned the best ways to help a student succeed. “You’ve got this. You can do it.”

“Say it again,” Malfoy breathed.

“Don’t be a prat,” Harry said gently. “You can do this. I know you can.”

“Expecto Patronum.” Malfoy’s voice was a low little murmur, so Harry wasn’t quite expecting the whole room to light up with glowing silver light, almost like a firecracker.

At last, Harry could look at it, the light resolving into a shape.

Malfoy’s Patronum was staggering. It was also . . . a stag.

The stag was powerfully built, more muscular than Harry’s Patronus, which Harry had always hoped looked like his father in Animagus form. The antlers on the stag were impressive as well, taller and thicker than the ones on Harry’s. My parents' Patronuses match, Malfoy had bragged. It represents their devotion to one another.

Snape’s Patronus had been a doe. Then again, Harry’s mum had been a woman.

We have chemistry, Malfoy had said. Harry had simply assumed that Malfoy was mocking him.

“Fuck!” Malfoy said, his voice high and wild. “Finite incantatem! Finite! Finite!”

The stag was already whooshing away, leaving the room feeling quite dim.

It doesn’t mean anything, Harry wanted to tell him, but Malfoy was already grabbing his robe, rushing for his satchel, and it was a lie. Malfoy must have known that Harry thought Malfoy’s sultry teasing was a joke; he must have counted on Harry not to take it seriously. And of course, Malfoy hadn’t been able to cast a Patronus before now.

He hadn’t known his Patronus would reveal he was in love with Harry Potter,

“Shit,” Harry said, darkness and cold settling in over his shoulders.