Title: Heart and Hearth
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Harry/Lucius
Content Notes: Angst, past Lucius/Narcissa, mentions of violence, minor character death
Rating: R
Wordcount: This part 4300
Summary: Lucius is unexpectedly sympathetic when Harry discovers that Grimmauld Place has burned to the ground. And he's the one who teaches Harry to have a hearth again.
Author's Notes: Another of my "From Samhain to the Solstice" fics, written for the request of nia_kantorka: Either Harry needs Lucius help with something or Lucius observes Harry being in a predicament and -to his surprise- wants to help him out of it (because he knows what to do of course). This is the first part of two.

Heart and Hearth

Harry stood in front of the smoldering ruins of Grimmauld Place and just stared. Then he rubbed his hand over his face and looked again.

But no matter how much he looked, there was nothing he could do. His home had still burned down, and with it his books and his clothes and even Kreacher. Harry winced hardest of all at the thought of the old elf. He could hope that smoke inhalation had killed him quickly, as Harry knew from Auror work that it could, instead of leaving him to linger painfully as the fire consumed him.

"Harry?"

Hermione was touching his arm. Harry sighed and turned away. Yes, he knew there was nothing he could do. The fire that had eaten his home was magical, both Hermione and the Aurors had assured him. Whether it was deliberately set or whether Kreacher had used his failing magic to light a hearth and this had happened, Harry had no idea.

He just knew that he had to get out of here.

"Can I stay at yours tonight?" he asked Hermione in a voice hoarse with tears, and wasn't sure when she pulled him close to her side.

"Of course."

The night's stay at Ron and Hermione's turned into a fortnight, and Harry knew they would have been happy to put him up even longer than that. Or he could have gone to the Burrow.

But he wanted a place that was all his own. He needed a place that he could think. He'd got used to doing that with a glass of Firewhisky in his hand and his feet propped up on a table that Kreacher wasn't too obsessed with cleaning, watching the flames as they danced in his hearth.

Well.

It was possible that the flames would never be part of the equation again. But Harry did need the privacy, because there was so much chaos in his head after each day as an Auror. Some of his colleagues hadn't got over Chosen One fever, and never would. And Harry still found himself revolving his feelings about Dumbledore and Tom Riddle and the war and all the rest in his mind on a regular basis.

With Molly's and Ron's help, he found a small house for sale on the extreme outskirts of Hogsmeade, to the point where the village began to run into the Forbidden Forest. The owner had had trouble selling it because no one wanted to live so close to the darkness and beasts that might come out of the Forest. Harry took it for a bargain, and it was a shining place, white walls and climbing vines that he had to trim back. Inside, it had a large dining room, squashy couches that the owner didn't want anymore, and hearths of polished wood and stone.

Harry thought everything was perfect, until he first tried to light a fire in the hearth.

The flames flared out of control, rising up so high that Harry could almost see them continuing on to consume the walls. Harry flinched back, his wand tracing defensive patterns before he remembered that this wasn't an enemy who would be intimidated by fancy wandwork. He managed the countercharm with a croaking voice, and the flames vanished.

Harry stood there and stared at the hearth, then around at the walls that had no charms on them to keep out the winter wind.

Well. This might be a problem.

"Excuse me, Mr. Potter, but I couldn't help but overhear what you were saying."

Harry stiffened, as he always did at the sound of that voice, which spoke a lot in his nightmares even now. Ron was snapping before Harry could even turn around. "What do you want, Malfoy? Get out of here and stop tormenting Harry."

"Your problem? With the fire? Not unexpected after what happened with your last home. My condolences for that. But I am sure that I can help with the problems in your new home."

Harry studied Lucius Malfoy warily. The man had the same kind of quiet, impeccable calm that he'd had before the war. He had his hands clasped around a silver cane that was indistinguishable from the one he had been carrying at his trials, if it wasn't the same one. He wore a silver ring set with what was probably a huge diamond on his right hand. His smile was faint and polite.

"What would you know about it?" Harry asked.

"I have been interested in many forms of magic throughout my life. The Malfoy library holds information on many more. And there is a subtle sort of emotional, sympathetic magic between a wizard and the place where he lives. The issue might arise from not considering your old house or your new one a home."

"That's ridiculous, Malfoy," Ron said loudly. "Harry wasn't even home when the fire burned down Grimmauld Place. How could he have caused it?"

"I did not say that he caused it directly. I did not speak in a tone of blame." Malfoy turned and looked at Harry as if he was shutting Ron out entirely. "I merely want to know if you thought of Grimmauld Place as home. Or this new house?"

"I haven't had time enough in this new house to think of it yet."

"And Grimmauld Place? I understand that you lived there some years."

Harry crossed his arms and said nothing. The truth was, it took a lot to make him consider somewhere home, which was why he'd never really thought of the Dursleys' house that way and why he still thought of Hogwarts as the one true place he'd have liked to live, if he could. But that was private, not a story that Malfoy might sell to the papers, for all Harry knew.

"Ah," Malfoy said, as if reading the truth from Harry's posture with Super-Secret Evil Skills. "Well. It may be that I can tell you how to cure the problem. If you would care to visit me some evening?"

"He would not."

"Would I have to come to the Manor?" Harry interrupted Ron. "There's so many memories there…"

"Ah." Harry would never be able to describe Malfoy's glance as soft, not when it was so keen, but it didn't scrape him to the bone the way he would have thought it would. "I am afraid you must, as some of the books in the library cannot be taken out of the house, and I would not wish for you to doubt what I say to you. But I can promise that we will meet in other parts of the house, away from the rooms you may find distressing."

"Yes. Then—all right. Yes."

"Mate, are you insane? Why would Malfoy want to help you?"

"You can consider it a repayment of the debt that my family assuredly owes you after the war," Malfoy said, which made Harry flush. Malfoy had spent six months in Azkaban. Draco had spent a month, before Harry managed to present evidence from sixth year that he'd been coerced into doing most of what he did. Narcissa was living in France with Draco, the last Harry had heard, but he didn't know why.

"I've already—you don't owe me anything."
"I said that you could consider it that way, not that it was." Malfoy's teeth glinted in the uncomfortable way that his eyes weren't doing at the moment. "Shall we perhaps say tomorrow at seven, Harry?"

Harry ignored the prickle down his spine at how Malfoy addressed him, and nodded. "That will work."

Malfoy nodded back, a deep nod that was almost a bow, and moved away. Harry watched him, and he really did seem to need the cane.

"Are you insane?"

Harry turned back to Ron and shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Malfoy sounds as if he wants to help, and I want to be helped. I'm tired of not being able to light a fire in my own damn hearth, Ron."

"But what if he hurts you?"

"He didn't sound like he wanted to."

"But if he does?"

"Then I can make a tradition of breaking out of Malfoy Manor," Harry said, and found reassurance in the way his friend laughed.

"Welcome, Mr. Potter. Please come in."

Harry blinked a little as he handed the cloak over to Malfoy, who had come to the door himself. He wondered for a second if Narcissa had taken the house-elves with her when she'd divorced her husband, but for all he knew, it could just be Malfoy trying to make Harry more comfortable.

Which was still strange.

"Thank you, sir," Harry said, the word automatic as he looked at the black formal robes Malfoy was wearing, and that silver cane that he did, indeed, lean on heavily as he turned to lead Harry down a corridor that he hadn't seen before. It had heavy oak doors that closed in front of it and curling dragons, or maybe serpents, along the edges.

Malfoy glanced back at him. "It would help if you called me either Mr. Malfoy or by my first name."

"What—why?"

"Because there are ways that I can help you with your house problem, but they depend on you being able to think of me differently. Holding me at a distance will not do that."

Malfoy kept walking up the corridor, ignoring Harry's stare at his back. In the end, Harry shook his head and followed. He'd done harder things in his life. He could treat Malfoy in a friendly manner if it would mean that he'd get fires to burn in his fireplaces again.

And he was really getting tired of Warming Charms.

The corridor turned several times before ending in the biggest library Harry had ever seen. Shelves crowded the walls and gleamed the sort of polished color he'd never thought brown could achieve. Here and there were windows that bore sunbursts of color in the middle of them, sort of like a Muggle church, although these seemed to be all abstract designs. Malfoy motioned him to sit down in a chair facing a large window with an emerald-colored swirl of glass in the middle of it. Between that and the chair Malfoy took, with his back to the window, was a stack of books.

"These are all the books that we have which pertain to your problem," Malfoy said, picking up the nearest one and opening it. "Have a look here, Mr. Potter." A tap of his wand, and several sentences underlined themselves.

Harry gathered up the book and began to read. He was aware that Malfoy didn't look away from him while he did that, but, well, putting up with some slightly creepy staring wasn't the hardest thing he'd ever done, either.

A house that holds a wizard needs a heart. In some cases, this is the family that the wizard makes with his spouse and children. In other cases, it is the family he came from, as in the ancient houses that now hold only one member.

But a house cannot endure when the wizard does not have either this or the perception that he belongs somewhere. The wizard must build the house's heart again. He must do it with purpose, warmth, and dedication.

Harry looked up. "That doesn't sound that mysterious. Wanting the house to be a home—"

"Is not enough," Malfoy cut in. He'd laid the cane aside and lounged in his chair now like the leopard that he'd sometimes resembled when Harry bothered to look. "The sense of continuity is important, as well, which a wizard cannot achieve by will alone."

"But—then Grimmauld Place would have burned down right after the war. I've never really felt at home there."

"Immediately after the war, did you have your friends staying over with you?"

Harry paused, then nodded. "Ron and Hermione spent a lot of time with me because—well, Mrs. Weasley was mourning Fred, and she wanted them to get married right away, probably because the wedding would have distracted her, and they just wanted to get away from everything for a while."

"Ah." Malfoy looked fleetingly uncomfortable at the reference to Fred, but it passed, and he leaned forwards again. "Listen. The heart of the home, in many ways, is the hearth. While you do not feel as if your home has a heart, fires will refuse to light." He picked up another book, this one bound in something that felt suspiciously like dragonhide, and gave it to Harry. Harry ignored the way that he focused on Malfoy's hands for a second. He had a thing for hands, sometimes. It didn't mean he would ever do anything inappropriate because of it.

Fire was once used to destroy old wizarding houses that a family was preparing to abandon, so that no enemies of the family could move into the house and use it as a base against them. This came to be regarded as a superstition, and at last old homes were sold instead of destroyed. But recent experimentation by…

Harry skimmed the long list of names that were probably prominent research wizards, none of whom he'd heard of, and picked it up again halfway down the page.

…has shown that this superstition is in fact true. Fires burn tamely when lit by magic, best when lit by the sense of family within a house, out of control when lit by magic in a hearth that does not have the sense of home. It is only necessary for the wizard dwelling in the house to reach a certain critical threshold of alienation, and the burning will begin.

Harry swallowed and sat back. "That's what happened to Grimmauld Place."

Malfoy nodded. "You felt no connection to the Blacks who had once lived there, even if you inherited the property. In fact, you probably had a negative feeling towards the house, as it is where your godfather was imprisoned."

Harry nodded shortly. It was true that he'd mostly tolerated living in Grimmauld Place for the last few years rather than being happy to live there. He mostly hadn't moved somewhere else because he hadn't had the time to concentrate on it. And then he'd broken up with Ginny, and it hadn't seemed necessary. What did it matter where he lived, when he'd rattle around in the empty place no matter what?

"Wizarding houses pick up on the magic and the emotions of their occupants, Mr. Potter. They will free themselves from that owner by any means necessary if those connections are all negative. And if you move into a new house which you have strict neutrality towards, then fires will simply refuse to light. That is the hearth, not the fire's or the spell's faults."

"So, if I built a new hearth…?"

"It would still be within the same walls and have the same problem."

"Damn." Harry settled back, and then started as a glass of mulled cider appeared next to him. It seemed Malfoy hadn't lost his house-elves after all. He picked it up and sipped, sighing as the warmth seemed to work its way through his limbs. "So what are my options?"

"You can move into a place that you do feel this kind of connection with—"

"There is none."

Malfoy paused. "None?"

Harry shook his head. "My parents' house in Godric's Hollow was destroyed when Voldemort attacked." Interested, he noted that Malfoy didn't flinch at the name. "My relatives' house never felt like a home. I don't have that kind of connection, and I don't know where to go." He winced as the last words emerged in a whisper. He'd never meant to say it that way.

Malfoy studied him in silence for some time, long enough for a plate of scones and a few delicate pots of honey and marmalade and silver knives for spreading them to appear on the table. "I see. Then I will make a recommendation I had not intended to make, given that I thought you would have other choices."

"What recommendation?" Harry covered a scone with honey and ate it. His stomach was rumbling, which made his cheeks flush, but luckily Malfoy ignored it.

"You need someone to live with you who can help you research the Potter family and, in the meantime, give you the sense that there is a connection with the house you've chosen. When you know enough about your family, there is a ritual that will literally transfer some of the memories and knowledge that you have into the walls. In essence, it fools the house into thinking that it's been a home for at least one of your ancestors. It also establishes an emotional connection for you. By the time the ritual wears off, a year later, the emotional connection is genuine."

"Who could—"

"Me."

Harry stared at him. Malfoy, seemingly encouraged by the fact that Harry hadn't rejected him right away, began to speak a little more rapidly.

"Hear me out. There are few people in our world with both the money and free time to do this kind of research, the expertise to find what you need, and the willingness to help you. I have all three. You may tell me all you like that I do not owe you a debt, but I feel that I do." Malfoy hesitated for the first time. "No one outside my family has ever done for us what you did, Harry. Testifying for us, making sure that the Aurors didn't abuse their power during house arrest, donating so that Draco could afford his school supplies during that year when the fines took all our money—"

"How did you find out about that?"

"Money, when it comes back, can bribe people who were bribed once before to keep a secret, Mr. Potter."

Harry grimaced. "Fine. But—you still don't owe me anything."

"I do. I would consider you honorary family if there were such a thing. Barring that, I would like to make sure that you have something as profoundly important to all wizards as a home. Let me help you, Harry. Let me give you a home and a sense of connection to your Potter ancestors and someone to come home to, for a time."

Harry felt a vivid blush work its way up his face. "You know what people are going to say if you phrase it like that?"

Malfoy shrugged. "I'm divorced. I will be spending much of my time in either the library here, other libraries, or your home. I do not care."

Harry hesitated. The thing was, he didn't care that much, either. Insults and speculation still hurt—which was one reason he'd kept it quiet that he was the one paying for Draco's school supplies—but newspaper articles weren't something that would influence the people he really called friends and family.

In a weird way, Malfoy's indifference placed him closer to that category than anyone else Harry could think of who wasn't Hermione, Neville, Luna, or a Weasley.

"All right," he said, and swallowed his scone. "Then you can be the one to explain to Ron what we're doing moving you into my house."

Malfoy's eyes glinted. "It will be my pleasure." He paused.

"Yes?"

"Will you please call me Lucius?"

As much because he knew how much it had cost Malfoy to ask that as because it would make things simpler, Harry nodded. "I will."

The smile he received was—something. Harry remembered that he ate more scones and they discussed arrangements, but by the time he went home, not the specifics.

He curled up under blankets covered with Warming Charms and had very, very strange dreams.

"But Harry, you can't let him move in with you!"

"He has already said yes, Weasley," Lucius said in an indifferent voice. "Now, please move out of the way, or I'll have to set the table down on top of your head, which would spoil it."

Ron folded his arms and scowled. Harry buried his nose in the book in front of him, which described a minor ritual that he might use to help coax fire back to the hearth. It wouldn't do anything without his feeling as if his house was a home, but at least it would mean that he was doing something.

"The table or my head?"

"Either one." Lucius conducted his furniture here and there in Harry's house like he was standing at the head of an orchestra, and suddenly Harry found that the space that had seemed more than large enough was bursting at the seams with crystal vases and thick blankets and soft grey sofas and tiny delicate end tables. Lucius then stood on the stairs to float more furniture up there.

"But there has to be someone else you can have with you," Ron said, still sounding as if he was appealing directly to Harry.

"There doesn't have to be, because I am here now."

"Malfoy is evil and is going to murder you in your sleep!"

"Strange, Weasley, I thought you were going to say that I would stab him in the back. Which is the more properly evil action, I wonder?"

"You don't want to have someone in your house that looks like that!"

The procession of furniture came to a stop, with an enormous bed that was dripping pillows hovering over the turn of the stairs. Lucius looked at Ron and then at Harry with his eyebrows set at a forbidding angle.

Harry sighed. "He means that you would give me bad memories of Draco," he told Lucius. He turned to Ron. "Don't you understand that I've put those memories of the war behind me? Or I would never have considered letting Lucius move in in the first place?" He glanced over his shoulder, and Lucius nodded at him before he returned to carefully maneuvering the bed upstairs.

In the meantime, Harry stepped close to Ron and hissed, "Shut the fuck up, Ron!"

"But you told me you like them tall and slim and with pale hair!"

Despite himself, Harry had to smile. "I never put it in those words. What, been watching out for men who are my type?"

"Well, women don't work."

Harry sighed and dragged his hand down his face. "I like women too, Ron. It's just that I don't have anyone right now. It's going to be okay, you know? Lucius is going to move in and help me get the fire back into the hearth, and that'll satisfy the debt he owes me and enable me to live comfortably in this damn place."

"You need someone in your life. Just not a bloody Malfoy."

"It's not going to be like that." Yeah, Harry had thought speculation might start, but he hadn't thought it would start with his own friends. "He's helping me out. Did you or did you not see that entire separate bed he just put up in my spare bedroom?"

Ron paused. Harry waited. His friend wasn't dim or slow, just stubborn.

Ron finally nodded. "If you really want me to believe that you want him here…"

"I do."

"And it's not going to be devastating for you when he moves out?"

"By then, the fire will be blazing in my hearth again. That means that I won't feel alone, because the house will be a home."

Ron chewed the inside of his cheek and nodded. He knew better than to suggest another roommate; there weren't a lot of people Harry trusted, and the ones who would clamor to live with him were the ones who would want to seduce him or thought they could seduce him. Honestly, this was the best arrangement that could have been worked out, as far as Harry was concerned. Lucius would pay his debt, and he wouldn't be staring at Harry with any kind of desire.

Which is a pity.

Harry buried that thought and clapped Ron on the shoulder. "It's all right, mate. I promise. And it'll probably just be for a few weeks or months at most."

"Months," Ron muttered, then shook his head. "Well, if you're sure that you want to do this—"

"I am."

Ron shrugged and then abruptly embraced him hard enough that Harry staggered. "Just stay safe, mate," Ron said in an undertone, and then turned and walked out the door before Harry could ask what the hell that meant.

Harry straightened his robes and shook his head. Then he turned in time to see Lucius standing very still on the stairs. "You were supposed to handle him and make him leave us alone, you know," he muttered.

"My apologies. I was distracted."

Harry blinked. For a second, he thought Lucius's eyes rested on him and shone…

Then he shook his head, and Lucius asked, "Do I have your permission to widen the cupboards? It is necessary. Their capacity is disgraceful."