Assignment 8: Muggle History: Task 5 - Hercules Mulligan: Write about a spy

thanks to Bex

The Ministry had fallen.

Harry Potter was dead.

Dumbledore was dead.

The war was over.

Draco felt like he could breathe for the first time since the Dark Lord rose again three years ago.

There were a few rebellious groups left, insignificant as flies. The Dark Lord didn't even care enough to swat them out before ushering in his new world order.

Draco never really thought it would end like this.

They'd been clearing out Mudbloods for the last year already, working through the Ministry to interrogate those who have stolen magic and wormed their way into pureblood society. Umbridge led those efforts, smiling broadly everytime Draco saw her in the Prophet, talking about cleaning up the streets.

But Draco never really thought Harry would die.

He was the boy-who-lived.

But not anymore.

In May, they found Potter at Hogwarts. The Dark Lord mustered his forces, and their enemies mustered theirs.

In the end, Potter lay dead in the middle of the Great Hall. Potter's death did not stop the fighting, but it disheartened their forces enough to tip the balance. The few left to cry for him were arrested.

The war, said the Dark Lord, is over.

And it seemed like it was.

The Dark Lord ushered in a new era of peace.

Draco graduated Hogwarts. He went to St. Mungo's and signed himself up for Healer training.

There are less Healers than there once were. Many of them died in the Battle, but many of them rose up after the battle, refusing to treat followers of the Dark Lord, even helping a few of the prisoners captured in the Battle heal and escape before they could be taken to Azkaban.

Many Healers were imprisoned or killed for being traitors to the new government. But after that, the killing stopped. The war was over. Traitors to the new regime were given fair trials before being tossed into Azkaban. The Prophet reported their crimes — treason, sedition, conspiracy.

Draco started his training a week later.

He loved it.

It felt good to heal, especially after all the destruction. They'd cleansed their world of those that would threaten it. It needed to be done. (Right? Right. Of course.)

It needed to be done. But that didn't make it any easier to graduate with less than half the class that he should've. It doesn't make it easier to look for Theo, who wanted to heal, and not find him, because Theo and Blaise disappeared when the fighting began and never came back.

Draco had thought of Theo as a friend.

But Theo was a dissenter. Theo didn't believe, because Theo had loved Blaise long before he'd turned eighteen and found Blaise's name on his arm, and Theo wasn't going to let that go for a man his father believed in. Not when Theo hated his father.

Before that, Draco hadn't realized his soulmate could be a man.

It wasn't something they really talked about. His mother and father had been engaged long before his mother has found Frank Longbottom's name on her arm, and neither of them had even thought about breaking it off.

His father had never gotten a name. He counted himself lucky for it. A lot of people never did.

Draco hoped he was one of them. His father had already spoken to the Greengrasses about an alliance.

He didn't need a soulmate to complicate things.

Things were complicated enough, with the Dark Lord living in his house.

Things were complicated enough, with the doubts that creep in when Draco is alone.

The thing is, he couldn't forget being fifteen years old and watching his father sent to Azkaban. He couldn't forget his sixteenth birthday, being called into his father's office where the Dark Lord was sitting.

He couldn't forget being Marked, pain lacing through his whole body. He looked at the Dark Lord in awe and the Dark Lord looked back with an expression of disgust and disinterest, as though Draco were nothing more than a worm to crush beneath his boot.

The Dark Lord looked at him and gave him an impossible task.

A task the Dark Lord knew was impossible.

The Dark Lord looked at him and said, "If you fail, I will ensure that your whole family suffers."

That was the first time Draco had doubts.

Before that, he hadn't had any reason to. It was obvious that Purebloods were a stronger magical line than any other. Naturally, they should rule. These were things he'd been told all his life, and why should he doubt them?

But he began to doubt the Dark Lord, because what kind of leader punished an entire family for one man's mistakes? What kind of man gave a task he couldn't complete to a sixteen year old and then told him in no uncertain terms that if he failed, he and his mother would be tortured?

Draco began to wonder if the Dark Lord was the best example to follow.

And that first doubt allowed others to be sown.

He watched Mudbloods accused of stealing magic from those that deserved it and he thought of Hermione Granger, who was naturally gifted and yet worked every day to learn what she could, and he couldn't imagine her having stolen anything. He knew that she worked for what she did.

And that… that led to thinking about his own family, his own lineage. He looked, and he found vaguely remembered histories that he was taught in his youth. He found squibs in Pureblood families, covered up and kicked out, but born, proof that lineage wasn't everything.

He found more and more people like his Aunt Bellatrix — Elladora, Alexia — clearly insane in their sadism.

He dared to wonder if maybe their fervent blood-purist attitude isn't the best for them all, in the end.

But he dared do nothing.

And then the war was over, and he could do nothing.

And so he learned to heal, because he didn't know what else he could do that didn't feel like more destruction.

But then his eighteenth birthday came.

…

Draco wakes up on the morning of his eighteenth birthday to Popsy, his own personal elf (a gift from his last birthday), popping into his room.

"Good morning, Master Draco," she says.

Draco, who has never loved mornings and was looking forward to sleeping in on his day off from training, groans.

Popsy just smiles. "Mistress Narcissa is having breakfast ready for Master's birthday."

At that, Draco bolts upright. His birthday.

His eighteenth birthday.

His name day, if he's going to get one.

"Thanks, Popsy," he says. "Tell her I'll be down in a second."

Popsy disappears, and Draco starts pulling off his nightclothes, scanning his pale skin for a dark mark different than the one permanently emblazoned on his wrist.

He stops breathing.

There, high on his left thigh, in messy, looping script.

Harry James Potter.

No. That can't be.

Because the mark is the bold black of a living soulmate, not the bright red of a dead one.

Harry is alive.

Or his tattoo is defective. Leave it to his body to fuck that up.

But he thinks about Harry Potter, thinks about the boy-who-lived-to-defy-the-odds, and he thinks if anyone could've pulled this kind of stunt off, it'd be him.

But then the meaning beyond the color sinks in.

This is his soulmate.

Harry Potter is his soulmate.

Harry Potter, who would, if given the chance, destroy everything their side has worked for.

Whom Draco hates.

They've been enemies from the very start, when Draco offered only friendship and was refused by a boy who thought he already knew better.

Draco wonders if this is the Universe's way of punishing him. Putting Potter's name on his leg.

At least it's in a place where no one can see it. He can claim he has no name, at least for now, at least until — Astoria.

The betrothal is nearly finalized.

He wonders if there are spells that can cover this up. He knows a basic concealment spell won't do it — something in the soul magic doesn't like to be hidden — but maybe something more complex.

Astoria cannot know that he's alive, Draco thinks. And then, Why not?

Shouldn't he be screaming it from the rooftops, or going straight to the Dark Lord with this information?

But then, he tries to imagine telling the Dark Lord that Potter is alive and he knows because of a soulmate mark.

He cringes at the thought.

He'd be surprised if the Dark Lord didn't kill him for daring to be bound to such a traitor to the cause.

Draco is eighteen. He's not ready to die. Especially not for something that is beyond his control.

But then, the Dark Lord will be even more furious if he keeps it hidden and then finds out later.

Draco doesn't know what to do.

But then he thinks, If Potter is alive, maybe the war isn't over.

Maybe the resistance is bigger than any of them thought. Maybe the Healers freed more than they counted, maybe there were those that slipped through the cracks at the Battle itself, maybe there were those who never fought at all.

Draco isn't sure whether that's a good thing or not.

He's not sure what they're doing is right. But the war is over. The fighting has stopped. Their people — good, talented witches and wizards — are no longer dying. He can't wish for war over peace.

But he thinks about Theo. Theo, who he never meant to become friends with because he was a little too Hufflepuff to make a great Slytherin. Theo, who fucking charged at Draco's defenses like he was a minotaur and Draco was trapped in his labyrinth. Who tore down every wall Draco had, curled up inside of them, and declared them friends.

Theo was weird and fierce and loyal. He was ambitious and competitive with the rest of them, sure, but his ambitions involved making the entire world a kinder place.

Draco wanted to hate him.

But he couldn't.

And Draco thinks about Theo fleeing. Theo, who may be dead. If he isn't, he's in hiding, which may be worse.

Draco wonders what kind of peace leaves his best friend fleeing for his life just because he dares to love his soulmate.

Because if Theo came back, he'd be branded a traitor for fleeing. Thrown into Azkaban.

And Draco thinks, maybe this isn't what peace is supposed to be.

But what does it matter? What can Draco do?

Nothing.

He wonders what Harry's face will look like when he realizes that Draco is his soulmate.

Because Harry is younger than him.

Draco knows, because Draco believes in paying attention. Draco believes in knowing his enemy.

Harry was born on July 31st. He won't have turned 18 yet. He won't have gotten his mark.

He thinks the answer should be easy. But it isn't.

And for right now? Well. He knows he's given Harry no reason to even consider trusting him, so even if he wanted to, it would be pointless.

So he waits. He keeps his eyes wide open and his mind on high alert, and he watches, and he listens, and he waits.

…

Harry's birthday comes and goes.

Draco wonders what he's supposed to do now.

Part of him wants to seek Harry out. Popsy could do it, he thinks. Nobody ever thinks about the house elves, but house elf magic is quite unlike anything else. It might take her some time, but he thinks she could do it.

But what then? If he does seek Harry out, what then? Does he turn against everything that he knows in favor of helping his soulmate fight a war that he probably cannot win, and will kill more of their people in the process? Does he turn him in to the Dark Lord? Can he?

He doesn't know.

He's not sure he wants to.

He keeps his mouth shut.

…

But then comes the first of September. With it, in the dark of night when Draco is alone, comes an owl.

Theo's owl.

Archimedes, a beautiful barn owl, cocks his head to look at Draco.

Draco looks back, before taking the letter. He wonders why Theo has dared reach out now, after four months in hiding.

But the letter isn't in Theo's penmanship. Theo writes like a Pureblood — each letter perfectly crafted. This letter is scrawled across the page like each letter is a struggle.

He checks the bottom.

It's signed with simply the letter H.

And Draco knows.

He doesn't know how. He doesn't know why Archimedes would have a letter from Harry. But he knows.

He starts at the top.

Archimedes should only be delivering this to you, and you know who you are, so I'm not going to bother addressing it.

I'm sure you can guess why I'm writing.

I woke up with your name on my arm a month ago.

I've been told I shouldn't write this letter. I've been told that I'm being naive, or even stupid.

I don't believe in you. But I also don't believe the universe makes mistakes. And maybe that doesn't say anything about who you are. Maybe it just says something about who you can be.

And if you need help in becoming that person, I'll be here.

Maybe that is naive. But maybe it's just having faith.

I believe in soulmates. I believe in that perfect person, the person who you'll fit with.

Apparently that's you.

And I think that means you aren't who you appear to be. Because if you were everything you appear, I wouldn't have gotten your name. You wouldn't have gotten mine.

So here's the thing. I'm not telling you where I am. (Now THAT would be naive). But I'm opening a channel of communication.

It's up to you what you do with it.

You can send Archimedes back with nothing. I'll take that for the answer it is. I won't ever bother you again.

You can send him back with a letter. You can use letters to try to gain my trust, try to get me to reveal myself, only to turn me over to Him.

But I don't think you will.

Maybe I do believe in you. Just a little.

Here's the thing. I'm trusting you. I'm trusting that you won't tell anyone that I'm out here. I guess I'm trusting that you haven't already told anyone. I don't know how long you've known. I'm trusting you with at least one of my allies, because I'm told you'll recognize this owl.

That's more than I've trusted anyone outside this camp with in… a long time.

But I… I don't think the universe gets these things wrong. Sure, they go wrong sometimes, but that's because we fuck them up. We're human.

And here's the thing. In spite of everything, I still believe people are really good at heart.

Maybe you think I'm a stupid, starry eyed vigilante. Maybe you think this is all a con so that I can trap you and use you as some sort of bait.

Maybe you think I'm doomed to die anyway, so what's the point?

But the point is life. The point is freedom. The point is love.

Because under His rule, there is none of that. People are alive, but they aren't living.

And if I have to be the one to fix that, so be it.

Maybe you can help.

Yours,

H.

Draco stares at the letter, stunned.

He doesn't understand how someone can be so open with someone they've spent years thinking of as the enemy.

He doesn't understand how Harry can trust him with anything.

But then, he thinks, he hasn't said anything about Harry being alive. How much of that is self preservation and how much is protecting Harry, he isn't actually sure.

But he knows that if he lets Archimedes fly away without carrying anything, he will always wonder.

He will watch people who may not deserve it given to the dementors, and he will wonder if he could've prevented it.

He will watch as names appear in the roster at Hogwarts of Muggleborn children and he will watch as they are rooted out and… what? They can't be left alone. They would too soon expose their world with uncontrolled magic.

Why has he never wondered before what will happen to them?

Will they throw eleven year olds into Azkaban for daring to show signs of magic?

Will they be killed?

They are children.

Draco grabs a quill, hands Archimedes one of Athena's treats, and sits down to write.

But what does he say?

I don't know if I believe in fate. But I don't know if I believe in what I used to, either.

Before he can second guess himself, he ties the letter to Archimedes' leg. He strokes her head, gently.

He grabs another piece of parchment, and writes.

T -

Thoughts? I'd be… grateful for your opinion.

He gives that to Archimedes as well, and then he opens up the window, checking for anyone on the grounds or any lights on.

"Fly safe," he tells her, and he lets her go.

He wonders if that was the right thing to do.

…

He goes to training. He comes home. He sleeps.

He thinks about the children who would be starting Hogwarts.

Now that he's considered them, he can't get them out of his mind. He wonders if he can ask. He wonders who he can ask.

In the end, he goes to his father.

He sits down at the table for breakfast before leaving for training. His father looks up at him over the Prophet, the cover of which loudly proclaims, MINISTER LUCIUS MALFOY CLEARS CORRUPTION FROM AUROR DEPARTMENT. He wonders how many Aurors wouldn't go down without a fight. He wonders if anyone died.

He thought peace meant that was over.

"Good morning," says his father.

"Good morning, Father," Draco says as Bobsy serves him toast.

They eat in silence for a moment.

Draco breaks it by saying, carefully, "Father, were there any Mudbloods with stolen magic down on the Hogwarts list this year?"

His father sets the paper down.

"Why do you ask?"

"Well," Draco says carefully. "They've been stealing magic for decades. I can't imagine they'd stop now."

His father raises an eyebrow. "You aren't wrong. There were a few."

Draco breathes evenly. "I assume it's been taken care of."

His father nods. "The message has been sent. Thoroughly."

Draco tries not to let his breath catch in his throat. He's glad he has years of practice keeping his composure.

His father's tone is unmistakable.

God, they were only children. Even if they were stealing magic, which Draco has never been sure he believes, does that mean they deserved a death sentence?

His blood runs cold, and he tries not to shiver.

But that's what happens, now.

Stealing magic has been ruled an offense punishable by death, according to the new Ministry. According to his father.

He wonders how much is actually his father and how much is just his father playing puppet.

He goes to training. He learns to heal.

It isn't enough.

He cannot heal death. He cannot heal the gaping wound that is being carved across their people.

So by the time the second letter comes, Draco has made his decision.

This time Archimedes bears two letters, one in Harry's ridiculous print and one in Theo's graceful script. He reads Theo's first.

You know that I believe in love.

I know that you don't.

But… I know you don't believe in what's happening, either. I know you're just looking out for yourself and your family, as best you can.

But here's the thing.

This isn't peace.

Not really.

It can't hold.

Something has to give. Eventually. And when it does… where do you want to be standing?

I can't tell you what you should do.

But I like to think I know you.

He may be naive, but I think he can do this, given the right kind of help.

Maybe it's time to take a leap of faith.

It's unsigned. He wonders if it matters. The letters are revealing enough. They're putting a lot of trust in Archimedes' ability to go unseen.

He thinks maybe he can help with that.

And he thinks maybe Theo is right. This fragile peace cannot hold forever.

Is it really peace if it involves the murder of children?

Something has to give.

Maybe it's him.

He turns to the letter from Harry.

I'll take what I can get, at this point. It's okay if you don't know.

I know it can't be easy. I know what it is to believe something since childhood. It's hard to change that. But it can be done.

Can we just… keep the channel of communication open?

Draco sits down at his desk and starts writing. He writes and he writes and he writes. By the time he's done, he has a scroll of parchment several feet long covered in script.

It's everything he can think of that might be relevant. The Dark Lord's habits. His father's habits. Any other key players that he knows a lot about. Whispers of plans that he may have heard.

The deaths of the children that were never publicized.

By the time he's done writing, the sun is starting to come up. Draco takes a deep breath, and summons Popsy.

He doesn't trust Archimedes with this. Owls can be intercepted.

"Popsy, I want you to follow Archimedes. You will not be seen. You will tell no one where you are going. You will follow him until you cannot anymore, and then you will wait. You will give this letter to Master Theo only." He doesn't trust that Popsy will recognize Harry. "You will wait there, and do whatever Master Theo tells you to. Do you understand?"

Popsy nods furiously. "Popsy is doing this for Master."

Draco closes his eyes, breathes in.

He cannot believe he is doing this.

He cannot believe he is turning traitor, turning spy against his own family.

But he cannot serve a cause that murders children for imagined crimes and calls that peace. He cannot.

He dashes off a note that says, more to follow. Send Theo, Popsy will find him. He ties this to Archimedes' leg, and takes another deep breath before letting Archimedes out the window. Popsy disappears only moments later.

And then he waits.

…

The thing is, the Malfoys are notorious. No one doubts what they are capable of.

He knows that, if Theo is with Harry, Theo will make sure every bit of that information that can be verified will be.

Draco knows he would, if it were him.

So he's not surprised when the response doesn't come immediately. And Draco has spent his whole life learning patience. Learning what it is to pick your moment wisely.

He knows how to wait.

He knows how to wait without being useless. He collects information, hoards it away like a niffler hoarding gold. He listens to his father talk about his plans as Minister. He listens to the Dark Lord, when he can. He listens to the house elves, who always know more than people think.

He keeps his eyes wide open.

…

Popsy reappears a week after she disappeared, clutching a letter in her fist.

It's from Harry.

You don't know what it meant to me to get your last letter.

To know that we're not alone in this.

Here's the thing. I think — and tell me if I'm wrong. I need to know if I'm wrong here — the Death Eaters are a snake. Not a hydra.

Cut off the head, the snake dies.

If Voldemort falls, will there be enough momentum in the Ministry to keep his wishes? If we sever the head, do you think the rest of the snake will fall?

Because I think with your help, I can do it.

The thing is, I know Voldemort. And I know what went wrong last time.

And I think, with your help, I can make it go right this time.

But I need to know if that's going to be enough.

Do you think we could talk in person? Could you get away? If you can't, don't worry about it. Popsy will come when Theo calls, and you're right. This is safer than Archimedes.

On another note — do you think you could get into the castle and talk to the Grey Lady? I think she might know something we need to know.

I don't want to push you. If you need time… well. We don't have much, but we have enough. To make sure you're sure.

And maybe… maybe if we can end this, then we can talk. About what it means that we have each other's marks.

If you want to.

-H

Draco hadn't expected Harry to be so hesitant. But then, he supposes, to have lived so long despite everything, he must have acquired some small amount of caution.

He dares to wonder if maybe Blaise is with them, with Theo, helping to rein both of them in. Slytherin Theo may be, but he's also impulsive at times.

H-

A hydra it is not. But neither is it one snake.

There are a few keys that need to be turned to make it all come tumbling down.

Let's meet.

I can get away on Tuesday, between noon and one. It's my lunch break from training. You pick a neutral location.

Come alone, or just with Theo. It's safer that way.

He gives the letter to Popsy, and he wonders if he is signing his own death warrant.

…

He sends Popsy ahead to check the location — a meadow in Scotland that hasn't seen human life in what may be decades. She pops back in less than a minute.

"Only Master Theo and Harry Potter, sir."

Draco takes a deep breath, and lets Popsy Apparate him.

He finds Harry lying down in the wild grass, so tall that were it not for Theo standing beside him, Draco would not be able to find them at all. He can feel the hum of the wards as he moves toward them, but he is unhindered.

Harry looks more at ease than he'd expected. The man is reclined on his back, cigarette in his hand and a lighter resting on his stomach. He's leaner than he used to be, which is a little alarming, given he didn't have a lot of weight to lose. But while his eyes are shrouded in shadow, they also shine with hope when he turns to face Draco.

Draco drops to sit beside him, as does Theo, allowing the wild grass to give them an extra layer of shielding.

"Did anyone see you leave?" Theo asks.

Draco smiles. "No," he says. "It's good to see you."

Theo looks at him, tipping his head thoughtfully. "I haven't decided yet."

Draco nods. "I wouldn't have expected you to."

It does, however, given him more reason to believe Blaise is still kicking around here somewhere.

He doesn't ask. He shouldn't know.

He looks at Harry, who is staring at the sky. He blows out a cloud of smoke before snuffing out the cigarette and tucking the lighter into a pocket.

"You think we can do this," Harry doesn't look at him as he talks.

It's not a question, but Draco answers it anyway.

"I think you can. If you do it right."

"How many?"

Draco has thought about this thoroughly.

"The Dark Lord, obviously. Bellatrix Lestrange." He glances at Theo before looking back at Harry and saying, "Charles Nott."

"Good riddance," mutters Theo. Draco tips his head in acknowledgement before adding, "The Carrows." He pauses, takes a deep breath. "And my father."

Harry's head twists to face him. Startled green eyes meet his.

"You would…"

"It's the truth. My father may have started as a minor player, but he is no longer. He's the Minister. He needs to be incapacitated before this can end."

It pains him to say, but he's looked at this from every angle. His father holds too much power. He could pull the Dark Lord's ideologies out of the dust and rally everyone, if left standing.

Draco doesn't want to play a part in his own father's downfall. But he cannot deny that it must happen, if they are to have any chance of success.

Eventually, Harry nods and turns back to the sky. "Six," he says.

He breathes in deep, exhales, and then says, "Do you know, I never wanted to kill anyone? And here I am. Eighteen years old, and people are looking to me to tell them who has to die."

Draco wonders why Harry is admitting this to him.

He wonders if it's a sign of trust.

In return, he offers up, "I never wanted to betray my family. But then, I never expected them to be so wrong."

"What made you change your mind, Malfoy?"

Draco knows his hands are shaking just thinking about it — and that's a sign of how safe he feels right now, because usually he'd have that reaction locked down.

"They slaughtered children in their beds. Children of our world. Our dwindling people. And they murdered them, for an imagined crime that I still can't figure out if they actually believe occured."

Draco clenches his fists to stop the trembling. "I can't be a part of that."

Harry sighs.

"Yet the torture of your own classmates didn't give you pause?"

Draco feels like he's been slapped. He closes his eyes and reminds himself that it's a fair question.

"I believed them. When they said that would make us stronger." He regrets it now, but he did. To a degree. "But this? There is no reason in the world strong enough to justify this." He sighs. "I was blind. For too long, because I didn't want to face what seeing it would mean for my loyalty to my family. But I refuse to be blind any longer."

"And your loyalty to your father?"

"My father is lost."

Harry nods, once. "Theo?"

Theo tips his head, and then says, "He hasn't lied to you, sir." And Theo would know. He knows every tell Draco's ever had.

"Told you to stop calling me sir, Theo."

Theo grins, and the sight lights up something long dark inside of Draco. "Yes, sir," he says.

Harry groans. "I don't know which one of you started that inane nickname, but I am going to hunt him down and make him pay."

"I'll let him know, sir," Theo says with a cocky smile that Draco knows too well.

"Draco?" Harry says.

"Yes?"

"Please, for the love of all things good, don't ever call me sir."

Draco wonders if it's too soon.

But the opening is right there.

How can he resist?

"Yes, sir."

Harry groans and covers his eyes. "Fuck you all," he says emphatically.

Theo and Draco exchange a grin.

But then, Draco sobers.

"Tell me what you need."

"Let's start with Helena Ravenclaw. She knows where Ravenclaw's diadem is. I know she does, but I didn't have time to get the answer before I died."

Draco blinks. "Wait. Back up. You died?"

Harry shrugs. "Yeah? I thought everyone knew that."

"Well… you're here. Not dead."

"Ah. Yes. The power of love," Harry says, monotone.

Draco is very confused. He'd assumed, when he learned that Harry was alive, that he'd used something like the Draught of Living Death to fake it. Not that he'd actually died and then come back to life.

"It's hard to explain," Harry says in answer to his confusion. "And you're on lunch so we don't really have time. I died, but my task wasn't done. So I came back. But I knew, then, that I couldn't kill him yet." He sighs. "I didn't want to leave. Not when there were people still fighting on my behalf. I'm so done with people dying for me. Just once, I want someone to live for me. Is that so much to ask?" He sighs again. "Apparently it is. Anyway… someone knocked me out and smuggled me out of the castle, told me I had a task to complete. I've been trying, but it's hard to do much when you're desperate to keep the world believing you're dead. But maybe together… Because you? You're alive. You can move. You can be seen."

"And you need me to be seen by… Helena Ravenclaw?"

"The Grey Lady. Yes. I need the diadem. But for the love of God, don't put it on. It's… cursed. With really fucking dark magic. And then I need you to keep your eye out. He's got something hidden, something none but his most loyal know. Maybe not even them. I guarantee it. We need to find it."

Draco nods. "I'll keep my eye out. And I think I can convince my training Healer that a visit to Madam Pomfrey is in order. She is still one of the best Healers in Britain."

Harry pulls off his glasses, rubs his eyes, and then replaces them. "I know this goes without saying, but… don't get caught. Please."

Draco isn't sure whether Harry's plea is because the war can't afford to lose their only inside man, or whether Harry's personal life is bleeding through.

He wonders if it matters, in the end.

…

As it turns out, getting leave to visit Madam Pomfrey for training one day is even easier than he expected.

It helps that he bears the Mark. Anyone who does is followed without question.

Sometimes he hates it. But right now? Right now he will use it.

He takes a straight path to the Hospital wing, but he keeps his eyes open.

Poppy Pomfrey looks at him in disapproval and Draco tries not to let that hurt. He knows what she sees. She sees the Mark on his arm and the people who have been tearing their world apart. She looks at him and she sees one of those in power.

He can't tell her that he isn't.

Instead, he sits down across from her in the tiny office and says, "I want to learn from you."

Because what can he do but appeal to the Healer inside? Appeal to the woman who took an oath to protect and not to harm? Appeal to the only reason Poppy Pomfrey is still here, instead of buried with the rest of those who went down fighting?

She stayed to protect her students, Draco knows. She stayed because they needed their Healer, and it is killing her not to protest.

Draco understands. But he cannot say that. So instead, he just sits down and asks to learn.

Madam Pomfrey eyes him somewhat warily, but after a moment, she says, "What do you need to know?"

And Draco has prepared questions. He asks her about what it is to heal children instead of adults, about what it is to deal with more daily struggles and less emergencies.

He asks her what she knows about healing dark magic and she stops and stares at him rather intently.

"Why are you asking?"

"Do you think me naive?" he returns. "The war may be over, but dark magic is never fully gone."

He doesn't let his face move when he says the words "the war is over." He can not afford to let her know that he does not believe it.

She leans forward, across her desk, and looks him dead in the eye.

"If you are probing for advice on how to torture and get away with it without bringing people to a hospital…"

Draco wishes he weren't surprised she thinks him capable of it.

He remembers the kindness in her hands and her gaze when she healed him from Hippogriff wounds.

None of that kindness is present now.

He has so many regrets.

He meets her eyes. "I swear to you that I am not. I want to heal."

He's done watching the world burn. He wants to build it back up.

She must see something she believes in his expression, because she loses a bit of her hostility and she starts to talk.

It may have been a ruse to get into the castle, but Draco does not regret speaking to Madam Pomfrey. She teaches like it comes naturally to her, anticipating at least half of his questions before he even gets the chance to ask them. She considers his questions carefully rather than brushing them aside. And besides that, having been in the thick of everything during the last year, she knows what it is to make serious decisions. She knows what it is to heal on the fly, to work with the practical applications of healing dark magic when under pressure.

When he asks if he can keep in contact, she looks at him levely and says, "You may."

Draco stands up and shakes her hand, grip firm.

When he leaves her office, he walks down the hallways until he's absolutely sure no one is following him and then disillusions himself and ventures up toward Ravenclaw tower. He's not sure if the Grey Lady will be there, but he isn't sure where else to look.

He winds up stumbling into her only halfway there. She's chatting with a portrait of a young lady in modern clothing.

"Excuse me," he says politely. "Ms. Ravenclaw?"

She turns her head slowly. "I haven't gone by that name in a long time," she says. Her voice is soft, nostalgic.

"Would you prefer the Grey Lady?"

She turns her hands up, showing her palms in what is almost a shrug. "You may call me what you wish. "

Draco nods. "Very well. Ms. Ravenclaw, I need to ask you about your mother's diadem."

Her placid expression goes hard.

"Those who seek wisdom through nefarious means will never achieve it truly."

Draco figures he should've expected that. "I don't seek its wisdom. Look. Years ago, a man found the diadem, didn't he? And he did something to it. He cursed it, didn't he? And you know, you know that there's something wrong with it now, don't you?"

Her gaze is distant. "I did not know. I thought he wanted to admire it. And he was so charming."

Draco understands that all too well. "I know he was. It's not your fault. But I can fix it, okay? I'm going to break the curse. But I need you to tell me where it is now."

She looks at him and it feels like her gaze cuts right through him. An odd feeling, from a ghost. "You will save my mother's diadem from its cursed purpose?"

Draco nods.

"Then you will find it in the place where things are hidden. Do not betray your word to me."

"I will not," he says. And then he strides off toward the room of Hidden Things.

He spent too much time in this room his sixth year not to remember the place where things are hidden. He spent too much time pacing it to need to search at all.

He heads straight to where he remembers seeing a gilded headpiece. Just before he picks it up, though, he remembers the intensity in Harry's voice when he told him not wear it.

He reaches into his robes, tears one of the pockets out, and enlarges the fabric enough to thoroughly cover the diadem. Thanking Merlin for the size of robe pockets, he slips it into the remaining pocket and strides out of the castle, removing the disillusionment charm when he gets back to the first floor.

…

He doesn't dare take the diadem back to the Manor. He doesn't know what the Dark Lord has done to it, but he doesn't dare risk that he might recognize it's presence. So instead, he leaves Hogwarts grounds, Apparates back to the same meadow, and summons Popsy.

He hands her the package carefully.

"Take this to Theo. Tell no one about it."

Popsy nods, ears flapping. "Popsy is doing this for Master."

"Don't unwrap it."

Popsy disappears with a pop.

Draco takes a deep breath, and goes home.

…

He gets a letter almost a week later.

Thanks, it says.

It feels like a miracle. And I hate to ask for more.

But I need one more thing.

One more miracle, for me.

And then this is over.

Draco sends back, I've never been accused of being heaven sent before.

He gets back a letter that says, Did it hurt when you fell?

There's a small doodle of a pair of wings in one corner.

Despite himself, Draco smiles before burning it.

…

The other one is harder, because Draco doesn't know what he's looking for. He only knows that it's important.

And to figure that out, he needs to get closer to the Dark Lord.

At this point, this is about the last thing Draco wants to do. But it doesn't matter what he wants.

He reminds himself that if this continues, it's not just that children will die.

Their world is dying.

He doesn't understand how he seems to be the only one who sees that.

Their population cannot be sustained by Purebloods alone. It's not feasible. It was barely feasible before they lost so many in the war.

The Dark Lord is taking out members of an already critically damaged population because he says that they don't deserve magic.

But if this continues… Maybe it's impossible to completely eradicate them because of the Muggleborns, but if they continue this way, there will be no one left to tell them what they are. There will be no one left to train them.

They will be exposed. It will be like the old witch trials, except that now the Muggles don't need to use fire when they have things that are so much worse.

He doesn't understand how no one else sees.

But it doesn't matter.

He shores up his Occlumency shields and offers himself up to the Dark Lord, asking the man he is growing to hate for any sort of job, as though a task from him would be a favor rather than an obligation.

He prostrates himself in front of a monster and wonders how far he can get on his knees.

But it works.

The Dark Lord gives him jobs. Small ones, at first. Errands. Communicating with other Death Eaters.

He finds out that Draco is good with potions and sets him to brewing. At first, Draco thinks this is a step backwards, a step away from where he needs to be. As a brewer, he learns less about the day to day operations.

But in the end, it is what saves him.

Because one day in January, when Draco hasn't slept in days between potions brewing and Healer training, with which he is nearly finished, the Dark Lord gives him instructions to create a potion which will turn the drink blind, confuse him, and also allow him to pass through a wall of magical flame. Which… is weird enough to ping Draco's senses.

But it's also the kind of challenge Draco revels in.

It takes him nearly two months to figure out the right proportions of ingredients and stirring, testing it on water goblets transformed into rodents and trapped in flames that won't burn.

But when the Dark Lord comes to him in March and asks how his progress is, Draco says, "Nearly finished, my lord."

He has set to work on an antidote.

Because the truth is, Draco knows how the Dark Lord's mind works. He knows because he's spent a long time thinking the same way. And Draco is now in the unenviable position of knowing more about this potion than anyone in the world.

If the Dark Lord is using this potion to hide something that could be his downfall… well. If it were Draco, he'd make sure that the only person to fully understand that potion couldn't tell anyone else.

So he brews the antidote. He tests it on the rats again, and then, just to make sure, he tests it on himself, calling Popsy to force the antidote down his throat when he can't in his delirium.

Popsy frowns at him sharply before he takes it and says, "Master should not be testing potions on himself."

Draco looks at the small elf who wears a tea towel like it's a badge of pride and has given him more loyalty than he deserves. "I don't have a choice," he says, and he downs the potion.

He blinks back to reality outside his conjured flames, Popsy staring at him intently.

"Master is being okay?" she asks.

Draco takes a deep breath.

"I'm okay. Popsy?"

"Yes, Master Draco?"

"If I'm right, I'm going to need you soon. But when I summon you, I need you to not come straight to me, do you understand? I need you to come near me, but not too close. Start with a kilometer away, come closer, but there's going to be flames. Don't cross them. Do you understand?"

Popsy nods vigorously. "Yes, Master Draco. Popsy is not crossing the flames."

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and nods. "All right."

And so it's April when Draco slips a tiny vial of the antidote into his pocket and takes the potion to the Dark Lord. He tips his head and says, "My lord?"

"Yes, Draco?"

"May I ask what the potion is for?"

And the Dark Lord smiles, thin lips pressed together, bloodless.

For a moment, Draco thinks the Dark Lord isn't going to tell him.

But Draco understand how pride works.

And the Dark Lord is proud of this.

"Come with me," he says.

Draco follows.

The Dark Lord puts a hand on his shoulder, long fingers gripping tight. Draco holds back a shudder.

They Apparate.

When they land, the world is dark.

"Where are we?" Draco asks.

"Nowhere. This place doesn't even have a name. It has no significance to anyone."

Draco looks around, trying to catch his bearings at least enough to Apparate back here. The world is ice, the ground frozen beneath his boots. His breath comes out in a cloud of crystals. He's glad he's got a full set of robes on, but he still feels the cold begin to creep inside his bones. To his left, he can hear the murmur of flowing water. To his right, something rises out of the darkness — a mountain? Not quite large enough, but it seems to be some sort of rock formation. He desperately imprints everything he can see on his memory.

After a moment, the Dark Lord starts striding forward. "Come, Draco."

Draco hurries after him.

They move maybe fifty meters when suddenly, a ring of bright green flames springs up, forming a perfect circle, about ten yards in diameter with the Dark Lord as the centerpoint. The flames leap and grow until they form a dome.

In front of the Dark Lord, a pedestal rises up from the ground.

The Dark Lord is smiling at it.

"This is a place that can never be found. Without drinking the potion, you cannot pass through the flames. But if you drink it, you'll go blind and mad. Tell me, Draco. How would you get out?"

Draco looks at him, wondering which answer he wants.

"I don't know, sir," he finally says.

"Really?" the Dark Lord asks. "Nothing?"

Draco hesitates, and then says, "I suppose… an antidote? Not sure how you'd manage to take it if you'd gone mad, though."

"That's the idea. Anyone who passes through the flames will be long since mad. And a mad man can't Apparate. The worst he can do is wander this wilderness, and I will know, and I will find him."

"My Lord?" Draco asks.

"Yes, Draco?"

"How… are we getting out?"

"Well, the flames can't touch me. I made them. I thought maybe you'd be my trial run."

And he turns and walks through the flames, leaving Draco alone with a basin full of potion that doesn't even contain the item he's hiding yet.

Draco pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

It's not that he didn't anticipate this happening. He'd rather hoped it wouldn't, though.

Because now he has some decisions to make.

He didn't feel the shimmer of any sort of ward when they stepped into this ring, meaning he doesn't think the Dark Lord has put up any of the wards to tell when the ring has been breached yet. It's not for sure, but it's really difficult to hide the tacky, sticky feeling of a ward like that from someone who's grown up around magic, and he's not sure what the point in hiding it would even be. Anyone with half a brain would have to assume that kind of sensory warding would be present.

So it probably isn't, yet.

Which means the Dark Lord is coming back to check on him. At some point.

But when?

If it was Draco, he'd wait until he knew the person was dead. No sense in complicating things. After that length of time, Draco would either be dead inside the wards, or dead outside of them, and that would answer that question well enough.

Draco pulls out his wand and tries to cast and Aguamenti charm. Nothing. He lights the tip of his wand, and that works just fine, as do a few sparks. He tries a heating spell, to ward off the cold, and that works just fine. But he cannot conjure water.

The Dark Lord truly has thought of everything.

He wonders how long it takes for a man to go mad from thirst. He wonders if that's why the Dark Lord has cast this circle over frosted dirt and sand, instead of the snow drifts that he can see just outside the perimeter. He's close to the ocean, but salt water wouldn't help with thirst.

He has to time this right.

Because if he leaves this circle, and the Dark Lord comes back when he is not here, then not only is he bound to die, he won't have even found the cursed object he's looking for.

But if he leaves too soon… well. They're going to have to fake his death, is the thing. He can't see another way around this. He has to be here, in this circle, looking like he died of thirst rather than drink a potion that he knew would make him lose his mind.

It has to look real.

The Dark Lord will be fooled by nothing less.

Draco wonders what that kind of desperate measures a man will take when driven to that degree of thirst.

He doesn't know. That's the problem.

He doesn't know how to make it believable.

Not without living it.

If it were anyone else, he would scratch up the soil, upend the pedestal, and call it good. But with the Dark Lord… Draco cannot expect him to be fooled.

He must live it.

"Popsy!"

Popsy appears in the distance, and then pops closer in increments.

"Master Draco?"

"Popsy, I need you to wait until I've gone half raving with thirst, and then I need you to make me drink this potion, and then guide me out of this circle, and then I need you to make me drink the antidote. Do you understand?"

Popsy tips her head.

"Master is wanting Popsy to wait before getting him out?"

Draco takes a deep breath. But the truth is, getting this close, only to fail, is not an option. Draco doesn't fail. And he refuses to die. Not when he's spent over 18 years just trying to survive.

If he has to face a few weeks of dehydration in exchange for a lifetime of freedom… well. That's a trade he's willing to make.

"Yes. I need you to wait a few weeks. Check in occasionally. Then, when I'm… you know, fairly close to death but still aware enough to drink the potion, then you help me out."

Popsy nods, but her face is sad. "Popsy is doing as Master wishes."

Draco wonders again how he managed to inspire so much loyalty in the elf.

Sadly, it's probably mostly the fact that he isn't nearly as much of a dick to her as his father used to be.

He wonders exactly how bored he's going to get before he loses his mind to the delirium.

…

At first, he's just thirsty.

Then he's nauseated.

His limbs feel heavy.

Then his head starts to throb. His fingers feel tingly and then numb. When he looks at his hands, his veins stick out prominently because the skin has grown thin and sallow.

The world goes a little fuzzy. He tries to stand, and stumbles to his knees.

He has lost track of how many days it has been.

"Master is taking the potion now," says Popsy. Draco tries to turn his head to look at her, but it's like moving through sludge. He doesn't know when she appeared.

"What?"

"Master is taking the potion now," she repeats. "Or Master is not being able to leave the circle."

Draco can barely process her words. He fixates on potion. Potion. What potion? He sticks his hands in his pockets, and comes up with a vial.

Ah. Potion.

"No!" Popsy yells as he uncorks it. "No, Master Draco. No."

No? But she just told him to take the potion?

He blinks at her.

"Master is putting that vial away."

Numbly, Draco recorks it, clutching it in his fist.

"Good. Now Master is standing, and Master is drinking."

Drinking? He is so, so thirsty. His tongue feels glued to the roof of his mouth.

He staggers to his feet and finds a basin. It is full of liquid, blue and clean.

He sticks his face into it, gulping it down.

He is still swallowing when Popsy's voice rings in his ears. He doesn't want to pull away — the liquid feels good on his parched throat — but something nags at him. Something that says this is important.

"Master Draco is coming to Popsy," he hears.

He doesn't understand. Why would she want to take him away from this nice basin?

But her voice cuts like a knife, disallowing him from sinking back down into the fog.

Annoyed, he stumbles toward her. He falls to his knees.

He can't see.

He can't think.

Who is he?

What is he doing here?

He falls. The ground is cool against his face. He wonders if the soil will provide the same sort of relief — it's the same kind of cold as the liquid in the basin.

He licks it.

It does not. Sputtering, he spits out the dirt and lays his cheek against the cool soil.

He wants to stay here like this. He wants to rest.

He wants that damned noise to go away. It won't stop squeaking.

"Shhhhhhhh," he says wearily.

The squeaking doesn't stop.

Reluctantly, he lifts his face from the cool ground, looking toward the squeaking.

It doesn't help. He'd forgotten he couldn't see.

"Master Draco is coming to Popsy," says the squeaky voice. "Master is moving right now, or Popsy is coming in there, and then Popsy is getting stuck, and Popsy knows Master is not wanting that."

Draco. Draco. That sounds familiar. Is that someone he knows?

"Master is a Malfoy. Master is doing better than dying in the arctic."

Malfoy. That's familiar, too.

A voice says, "What made you change your mind, Malfoy?"

It echoes around the walls of his head.

He remembers… something.

Something that isn't quite enough to grab onto, but…

He's supposed to come back to someone.

"Don't get caught," says the voice.

He can't get caught. He stumbles forward on hands and knees, knowing he has to move toward that voice. He can't disappoint it. He can't stay here.

A weird shudder comes over him, but he keeps moving, keeps crawling, until there is a squeaky voice in his ear and a vial at his lips, and he swallows because he is still so thirsty.

His vision comes back in flickers, stabilizing slowly into a view of arctic sand.

He turns back to find the flames gone, the pedestal vanished into the dirt.

His brain stutters, trying to come back online. He had a plan. He knows he did.

"Popsy, I need you to take me to Theo, and then I need you to go home, grab the Draught of Living Death from my stores, and then that wilderness healing book that's in my study."

Popsy nods, and they disappear with a pop.

Draco staggers, winding up flat on his face when they appear in a forest. "Ow," he mutters.

"Popsy is sorry, Master!"

He groans, and then manages, "It's fine, Popsy. Just… go." Every word feels like a miracle through his swollen tongue.

Popsy disappears.

After a moment of staring at the ground, Draco heaves a great sigh and hauls himself to hands and knees. His limbs are trembling, barely able to support his body.

Then, suddenly, Theo is at his side. "Draco? I thought Popsy… what were the first words you said to me in our dorm?"

"I… get the bed in the back," Draco says, each word scraping it's way out of his throat.

"Jesus, Draco. What happened to you? Let me get you inside."

"Wait," Draco rasps. "Promise me. You won't heal me."

"What? No, I'm not promising that!"

"Will explain. Just… promise."

Theo sighs. "Look. I'll hear you out, and if I decide your reasons are good enough, then I won't heal you. All right?"

Reluctantly, Draco nods. Theo tries to haul him up, swears, and then waves his wand. Something silver that Draco can't quite decipher bursts out of the end and darts off.

After a moment, Blaise appears, seemingly out of nowhere.

Draco smiles at him weakly. Blaise stares.

"The fuck?" Blaise finally says.

"Look, just help me get him inside and then we can give him the third degree," Theo snaps.

"You already…"

"Yes, it's him, I checked."

Blaise strides over and takes Draco's left side, allowing Theo to take the right. Together, they haul him up and forward.

Draco drifts in and out of awareness until he finds himself lying on a sleeping bag, Theo, Popsy, Blaise, and Harry all staring at him.

"What?" he asks.

"Why the fuck can't I heal you?" Theo bursts out. "You're severely dehydrated."

"I know," Draco rasps. "You need to let it get worse."

The four of them stare at him in silence.

"No," says Theo.

"Have to," Draco says. He hates that he can't manage full sentences, but he's trying to marshall his thoughts and it's barely working; he can't be bothered to use more words than necessary. "Needs to think I've died of it. Needs to look right."

"What?"

"Popsy. Explain."

And Popsy explains the ring of fire, the basin, the potion, the antidote. She explains the Dark Lord leaving Draco to die. And she explains, as Draco explained it to her, his plan.

"Master is needing Master Theo to let him look very dehydrated. And then Master is needing Master Theo to be giving him this." She holds up the Draught of Living Death.

"The Dark Lord is leaving the object there and removing Master Draco's body. Popsy is then waking the Master up, and Popsy and Master is going to get the object and then fleeing. The Dark Lord is knowing Master has taken it, so Master is not being able to go back."

"You want me to let you come close to death, then make it look like you died, then shove you in a ring of fire and let the Dark Lord do what he wants with you while you look dead?" Harry asks. "No. No, I'm not fucking doing that. You know what he did with my body when I was dead? He tortured it. And then used it as a fucking victory flag. How do we know he won't… I don't know, try to burn yours?"

"Because I don't matter. Don't you get that?" Draco bites out.

"Yes you do!"

"Not to him!" Draco coughs, throat burning, but he pushes on. "You were his victory flag because you were the only defeat that mattered. I will be nothing more than a servant who outlived his usefulness, who learned too much."

He falls silent for a moment, lets them take that in, and then adds, "Do you think I haven't looked for another way?"

"You would have me do this?" Theo asks. His eyes are wounded, his voice broken.

"I would have you help me end this," Draco says back.

Theo closes his eyes, breathes in deep. Blaise moves closer to him, wraps an arm around his shoulders. Draco smiles at the picture that they make.

"At least… let me speed it up. I can… there's a spell that will accelerate the dehydration."

"Do I want to know why you know that?" Harry asks.

"No, sir," Theo replies immediately. Harry sighs, running a hand over his face.

"Yeah, all right."

Draco knows how Theo knows that. He can't believe he forgot about it.

He remembers twelve year old Theo, curling up at the foot of his four-poster because he didn't want to be alone, admitting things in a whispered voice in the dark as Draco said nothing, letting Theo pretend that he was saying them to no one.

He remembers Theo telling him about his father's creative punishment methods.

"Go ahead," Draco says. He half wishes he'd remembered it earlier, because then he wouldn't've had to spend the last… however many days in that circle, but he knows there are wear patterns in the dirt from his pacing and gouges from his fingers and piles and holes from his boredom that would be significant in their absence.

Theo pulls out his wand and takes the Draught of Living Death from Popsy. "Are you sure about this?"

Draco nods.

Theo casts the spell.

For a long time, Draco knows nothing else.

…

He wakes up desperate, gasping for air. His limbs are trembling. He's lying in the dirt.

His eyes feel sticky, tacky, but he peels them open. His throat is desperately dry.

Harry is kneeling beside him.

"Hey, it's okay," Harry says. "You don't need to say anything. It's fine. I know what coming off the Draught of Living Death feels like. I don't know what happens when you add a few weeks of dehydration, but I can't imagine it's fun."

He tries to say something, but the words can't force their way out of his throat.

"Gimme a second," Harry says. "Theo gave me enough to get you out of here, and then he'll fix you right up."

Harry pulls out his wand and tries a spell. He swears profusely, then tries another one.

"Fuck this goddamn circle."

And Draco realizes.

Whatever healing spell Harry is trying to use must conjure water. It can't be done inside this ward.

"Okay," Harry says. "Okay. Look. You're going to drink this fucking potion, and then I'm going shove you out of this circle, and then I'm going to follow you and we're gonna get the hell out of here."

Draco wants to warn him about the timing, that there's some kind of warding that he's pretty sure is going to tell the Dark Lord when they cross that circle, but his throat is unable to make sounds.

Then there's a goblet at his lips and he's trying to drink but he's sputtering, choking and he hates it, he hates being this weak but he can't change it.

He must swallow enough of it to count because his vision goes hazy and dark and his mind goes fuzzier than it already was.

Shaking hands are pulling him up, shoving at him, and suddenly he feels the tremble of wards, much stronger than they were before.

And then Popsy is at his side raising the antidote to his lips and his vision is coming back. And everything aches vaguely and his mind still feels like every thought is dragging its way through a vat of molasses and then…

Then Harry is at his side and Popsy is giving him the antidote too and then they're all spinning through space and Draco is losing consciousness again.

…

This time, he wakes with Theo standing over him, sighing.

"You're damn lucky," Theo says.

"Don't believe in luck," Draco says, and his throat is rusty but the words come out, and that's progress.

His limbs feel weird, but it's not a numbness anymore, just a heaviness that's probably disuse.

"You cut it close, dumbass," Theo says.

"Had to. Wouldn't have been believable. Worked, right?"

Theo smiles. "Yes. It worked, thank the gods."

That's when Harry slips through the door to the tent. He sees Draco awake, and he smiles.

"You look better."

"Hard to look worse," Draco says.

Harry grins, wide and bright.

"You did it," he says. "We've got it, the last one."

"He knows," Draco says, in case Harry didn't know much about the wards. "He definitely knows, so whatever you're planning, you've gotta move fast."

Harry shrugs. "I figured as much. I don't know if he knows we got the diadem yet, but even if he doesn't, he will soon. And he won't be pleased. We've got to move now."

Draco hauls himself up into a sitting position under Theo's watchful eyes.

"You've got a plan?"

"Most of them are already in place," Harry says. "I… I needed to make sure you were okay before I…"

"You're going to face the Dark Lord."

Harry tips his head in acknowledgement. "Kinda my job at this point, isn't it?"

"Shouldn't have to be," Draco says. Because it's always felt unfair to him. Who puts that kind of job on a teenager?

But no one else wants to take up that mantle.

"'Shouldn't stopped mattering a long time ago," Harry says, and his voice is almost bitter, but not quite. "I have to go."

"Tell me you aren't doing this alone."

Harry shrugs. "There may be more of us than he knows, but there still aren't many."

Draco stands. He's steady on his feet.

"I'm going with you."

"The hell you are," Harry says. "You just recovered from severe dehydration and I know Theo's good but he's still human."

"So are you," Draco says. "I know what the Dark Lord is capable of."

"And you think I don't?"

Which is a fair point, but Harry hasn't been living with him for the last few years.

"Did you send any of the rest of your people out alone?"

"No," Harry admits.

"You're not that special," Draco says.

"Then why does the world keep fucking telling me that I am? I don't want to be."

"Then let me help."

"What do you think I've been doing? You think it's been easy to let you do things I've been told my whole life were my job?"

"Do you think it's been easy to do them when I've been told my whole life that betraying my family is the worst thing I can do?"

Harry looks like he's been slapped.

"I thought…"

"What? That I wanted this? I want this to end. I want it to be over. I want children to be able to live their lives. I want to not be so damn scared. I never wanted to put my father's name on a kill list. I never wanted to act against him knowing that he'd kill me if he knew." Draco sighs. "It may be easy to do the right thing for you. It's what everyone expects. It's not so simple for me."

"Will you two just shut up and go? You can deal with this later. You've got years worth of shit to work out, but right now you've got a coordinated attack that needs to involve you. And I need to go watch the kid, so you need to go now." Theo looks entirely done with their shit.

Harry sighs, and then turns to Theo.

"In your medical opinion, is he fine to do this?"

Theo presses his lips together so tightly they go ghost-white. "Look. If things weren't as critical as they are, I'd say he needs rest. But we don't have time for that. In my entirely self taught medical opinion? It's safer if he goes with you. I know you're going alone because you don't want to ask me to fight. I appreciate it. I'm a Healer, not a fighter, and… look. I don't want you out there alone, boss."

"Still not your damn boss, Theo." Harry sighs. "I'm a hypocrite if I don't let him come, aren't I?"

"Just a bit, sir."

Harry rubs a hand over his face. "Fuck. All right. Fine."

…

Harry has an invisibility cloak.

This explains so many things.

It covers both of them if they curl in close.

The plan, Harry explained, was to wait for Voldemort to check on the missing item — an old Slytherin Prefect's badge that Harry has yet to explain the significance of.

Then, while he was gone, they'd Apparate to where they could see the Manor's Apparition point. When Voldemort showed back up, they'd take him out.

"He'll be furious," Draco had pointed out.

"I know," Harry had said.

And that was that.

So here they are, standing outside the Manor's wards,

The Dark Lord Apparates back to a different point each time he returns to the Manor. There are three patches of stable ground just outside the Manor's wards.

It took Draco a long time to figure out his pattern, but once he had, he'd found out the the Dark Lord never deviated from it.

Harry's had one of his people watching the Manor since Draco disappeared. They knew which point he was coming back to.

So now, all they have to do is wait.

Draco stands behind Harry but the cloak is small enough that he's pressed up close, can feel the warmth of Harry's back against his front.

He wants to think about what that means but he doesn't have time.

Instead he thinks about the plan.

Not about how it goes, but about what it means.

About what it means that Harry, who has always taken things head on, has concocted a plan that involves stealth. Involves what Harry would've once called underhandedness. What most Gryffindors would refer to as stabbing someone in the back.

It's a move of desperation. It's the move of a man who has no other options.

He's already noticed that the months since the war ended have changed Harry. He's always been thin and wiry, but now he's skin, bone, and muscle. Skin, bone, and muscle that swears like Blaise always did when no one was around and who ducks his head but straightens his spine when people call him "sir."

He wonders how many people Harry leads. How many people follow him without question.

How many people are out there, ready to kill on Harry's orders.

He wonders if this is going to work.

Because it needs to work now, all at once, or this is going to be a long, slow, torturous process.

If any one of these key players survives, the war won't end tonight.

They'll know that the rebellion needs to be taken care of. And the fighting will start all over again.

Draco didn't risk his life for that.

This ends now.

This ends tonight.

…

In the end, it feels like an anticlimax.

Voldemort appears. Harry casts a spell.

The Dark Lord's body falls to the ground with a thump.

Harry breathes out, his body releasing a tension it's been holding for years.

"Is this real?" Harry asks softly.

"Yes," Draco says.

"Is it over?" Harry asks.

"I think it is."

"What the hell do I do now?"

And Draco can't help himself. He starts laughing, and then he can't stop. He can't breathe, his head is pressed against Harry's shoulder blade, and he can't stop laughing.

Harry gives him an odd look, but then dissolves into giggles.

Suddenly they're both on the ground, half covered in the cloak, half limbs sticking out, cackling wildly.

Draco thinks, as he catches his breath, that it's some kind of relief.

"Let's start by checking in with Theo," Draco says finally. Harry nods, grabbing his hand and disapparating them both.

…

They walk into the tiny encampment of tents to a series of ragged cheers.

Eleven people stand in the clearing. Theo is clutching at Blaise like a lifeline. Kingsley Shacklebolt, missing half an arm but still standing tall, surveys the crowd. His aunt Andromeda stands next to him, which Draco hadn't expected — Mother had said she was dead. In her arms is a baby with bright blue hair. Seamus Finnigan and one of the Weasley twins are next to them, curled into each other even tighter than Theo and Blaise. A heavily scared Lavender Brown is leaning against one of the Patil twins, both of them looking weary. Professor McGonagall has a hand on Lavender's shoulder, and on her other side stands one of the Hufflepuff girls from their year — Susan, maybe.

This is it, Draco thinks.

This is all that is left of those who fought the Dark Lord.

Harry beams at them. "Everyone successful?"

Theo grins at him. "Every single one, boss."

"Still not your boss, Theo."

"Sure thing, boss."

Harry scowls, but it's ruined by the fact that he can't stop beaming

"You… you all know this isn't how I wanted this to end. But I'm so proud of every single one of you."

"You going to give us a speech, boss?" Blaise calls.

"You going to give one, Blaise?" Harry calls back. "Nah. No speeches. We're going to take back the Ministry. We're going to put Kingsley in the Ministry position that he deserves, and then we're going release everyone from Azkaban. It's not going to be easy. We're going to have to sort through who was just scared and who was a part of all of this. And we're going to do it better than last time." He looks at all of them in turn. "We're going to make sure it's really over, this time. But first? First we're going to give ourselves an hour or so to deal with what just happened, because I know a lot of you had never killed a man before and that's not an easy thing to deal with." He looks at them. "You need to talk to me about it, you come talk to me. In about fifteen minutes. I've got some talking of my own to do," he says, glancing at Draco. A small laugh goes through the group.

"Nice speech, sir!" calls out the Weasley twin.

"Fuck off, George," Harry says. George laughs in return. "Now get out of here," Harry says.

They split off to various tents until only Harry and Draco are left.

"Time to see my tent?" Harry asks.

"Seems pretty forward of you," Draco can't help but snap back.

Harry grins at him. "Well, we are soulmates, you know."

"That doesn't mean I don't need to be wined and dined,."

"Fair. But maybe we can wait until I'm not living in a tent for that?"

"I suppose that's fair," Draco acquiesces.

He follows Harry into one of the tents in the middle of the camp.

It's a wizarding tent, giving them room to stand up inside, but a small one. There's a bedroll in one corner and a table with a small stack of books in another.

Harry collapses on the loveseat and looks at Draco expectantly. After a moment, Draco sits beside him.

"I meant what I said," Harry offers. "It's not going to be easy. We've got to rebuild this world from the ground up. But we've got time. And we've got the chance. Thanks to you."

Draco shakes his head. "You'd've done it without me."

"Sure, yeah, probably. But it'd've taken about a decade longer. Don't negate what you've done, Draco."

"I know what I've done. I also know what I've lost. What we've all lost."

"War makes monsters of us all. It also makes victims of us all. No matter what side we start on."

"I'm not a victim!" Draco snaps, his voice hard.

"I am," Harry says easily. "And I think everyone in this camp would say the same. We didn't deserve this. Not one of us deserves this." He sighs. "I don't want to fight you. I'm done fighting you. But I'm not going to demand anything from you, either."

"You don't think if anyone has the right to make demands right now that it might be you?" Draco asks.

"That's not the point. The point is, you're my soulmate. And that means whatever you want it to mean."

"Maybe it means nothing."

"Maybe," Harry admits.

"Maybe it's the cavalier whims of an asshole with powers."

"Maybe it is."

"What do you want from me?" Draco says sharply.

Harry looks at him. His shoulders are slumped, his hands on his knees.

"Nothing you don't want to give," he says softly. "But if it's up to me? A chance. I'd like to try. To see where this goes."

"And if it goes poorly?"

"Then it goes poorly. I don't know the future. I just… maybe it's a leap of faith. And maybe it's stupid. But what's the harm in trying?"

And, after a moment, Draco nods.

…

11 months later

Teddy's first birthday is a reunion of sorts.

Every single person Draco saw in that camp comes to celebrate the youngest of them all. Teddy never touches the ground.

Right now, Teddy is sitting in Theo's lap on the couch, giggling as Blaise plays peek-a-boo with him. Andromeda is in the kitchen with his mum, Professor McGonagall, and Kingsley, and Draco knows the degree of trust that takes to leave her grandson out of her sight. Seamus and George are sitting at the table, holding hands as they talk to Lavender and Padma and Susan. Justin Finch-Fletchley, seven months out of Azkaban and still shaky, sits next to Susan but says nothing.

Draco and Harry are the last to arrive. Harry maintains this is Draco's fault, because Draco is incredibly distracting. Draco says it's Harry's fault for being so distractible. Either way, they arrive late, hand in hand, lips still slightly reddened and Blaise whistles at them.

Harry flushes bright red.

"Shut up, Zabini."

"You can't give me orders anymore, sir."

"Stop calling me sir."

"Never, sir," says George from the table. Seamus is cackling at his side.

"You're really never going to let that go, are you?"

"Not a chance in hell, sir," says Susan.

Andromeda comes into the living room then. "All right, time for food, all of you."

"Yes, mum!" comes a chorus from the teens.

"Stop calling me mum," Andromeda says in the same tone as Harry had just a moment before.

Draco grins. "Hi, Aunt Andi."

Andromeda smiles back. "You get to eat first. Because you aren't a hooligan."

She greets him with a hug, and then hugs Harry as well. "Your godson will be pleased to see you," she tells Harry.

"It's been too long," Harry says.

"It's been three days," Andromeda counters.

"Too long, Andi. Too long," Harry says melodramatically.

Draco smiles at all of them, especially Harry whose hand is warm in his.

It isn't the family he expected, and only three of them are actually related to him, but this? This is home.

Auction Challenge: prompt: soulmate tattoos; words: 13276

Couple Appreciation: Trope: Soulmates

Pinata: Voldemort Wins; words: 13276

Film Festival: 43. Plot - Write about breaking the rules/challenging authority

April Writing Month: 13276

TV Addicts: Sherlock: "Just one more thing. One more miracle, for me."; Healer; faking death; deduction.

Gobstones: Yellow - Survival; A: (word) Starry; P: (character) Lucius Malfoy; T: (word) Shiver

Scavenger Hunt: Write the trope: enemies to lovers.

Character Appreciation:Word: Rebellious / Amber's Attic: 16. We have to create. It is the only thing louder than destruction. / Book Club: Mr. World: (object) lighter, (au) spy, (word) con / Showtime: 10. Bright New Day - write about being hopeful for the future / Days of the Month: Find a Rainbow Day - Only feature queer characters or pairings (10 points) / Liza's Loves: 6. Soulmates & 9. Dystopia / Buttons: D2: "Did anyone see you?" / Lyric Alley: 10. I'm just so sick, I thought you might be here / AAA: 9. The Dark - Word: Vigilante / Sophie's Shelf: Hardboiled Detective: Write about someone doing something they really don't want to do. / Lo's Lowdown: Natasha Romanoff: Alt. write about a spy.

Easter Bingo: 69. Plot Point: A fight

Make an Easter Basket: Crayons: (plot point) someone showing their true colors

365: Trope: enemies to Lovers

Insane house: Quote - "In spite of everything, I still believe people are really good at heart." – Anne Frank, The Diary of Anne Frank

Astrology: Lucius Malfoy

Shakespeare: Julius Caesar - write about being betrayed by someone close. Alt. write about a political war

Eurovision on HPFC: Ireland: together.