Lordes

[Fic] A Different Kind of Blame

lordes — Mon, 17 Nov 2014 15:55:22 GMT

Originally posted at: hp_halloween
Gift for: lq_traintracks
Title: A Different Kind of Blame
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R (for subject)
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine. I wish he were, though. I’ll ask Santa.
Warnings: Pending Character Death
Summary: No matter how much Draco loves Harry, when his family is threatened by Death Eaters, he sees no other way out than to comply with their demands.
Notes: A big shout out and thank you to the amazing mods for not only notifying me when sign ups were open (as I tend to be late every single year), but also for organising this incredibly fun fest once again. I don’t know how I’d be spending my Halloween without it. And thanks to my lovely beta, lordhellebore as always, and missingkeys for the last minute save! You two are my heroes. ♥

lq_traintracks, this ficlet was born out of your prompt: “A cold tomb behind his/her back”. You might find that I used it metaphorically, and I really hope you don’t mind, as I kind of got attached to the idea that it gave me.

*
It’s not his fault. It’s never been his fault. Not the war, not my fate, not even Him and what He did to my family. No, it’s definitely not his fault.

And yet, despite none of this being on him, despite the sacrifices he’s already made, despite my pleas and begging for forgiveness to Them, he’ll still have to pay the price. He always will, because he always has. I understand that now.

An angry tear rolls down my cheek, leaving a burning streak on my cold flesh. I don’t wipe it away. I won’t. I don’t deserve it.

He’ll be better off, back with the people he’s lost and so desperately longs for. People who love him in a way I feel I’ve never fully managed to. I see it in his eyes every single time I look at him. And my family: the father for whom I was never quite enough and the mother who never spoke up to him, they’ll be safe. They’ll be saved, one last time.

And as I pull my hood back over my masked face once again, cover my Mark and pull out my wand, I console myself with that exact thought.

[Fic] Blink (10/10)

lordes — Fri, 15 Aug 2014 11:12:13 GMT

[Fic] Blink (9/10)

lordes — Fri, 15 Aug 2014 11:07:04 GMT

[Fic] Blink (8/10)

lordes — Fri, 15 Aug 2014 11:02:48 GMT

[Fic] Blink (7/10)

lordes — Fri, 15 Aug 2014 10:55:16 GMT

Title: Blink
Recipient/Trope: Bodyswap for gatewaygirl
Username: lordes
Betas: lordhellebore, amorette
Pairings: Harry/Draco. Mentions of: Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione, Draco/Astoria, Draco/Blaise, Ginny/Oliver.
Characters: Harry, Draco, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, George, Arthur, Molly, Kingsley, Hawkes Hawlish, Auror Williamson, Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa Malfoy, Voldemort, Bellatrix, Nott, Avery, Gawain Robarts, original characters. Mentions of: Luna, Umbridge, Blaise, Oliver, Astoria.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Rating: R
Warnings: Suggestive M/M relationship, original characters, unexplainable magic, hurt.
Word Count: 46 000
This Chapter: 6383
Summary: When Harry is approached for a favour by Draco Malfoy at the Ministry of Magic, only in his wildest dreams can he imagine what will await him in the morning to come; and when a mysterious man in a top hat appears, Harry fears he might be losing his mind. With his friends by his side and a very troubled Minister, Harry is desperate to find a solution for his blond problem as fast as he can - only that might prove more difficult than he initially expects. As he slowly gets immersed in a life so unlike his own, Harry comes to realise not everything is as black and white as he thought it was, and that the bad guy might not be the bad guy after all.
Author’S Notes: Originally written for the HD TROPES Fic Exchange, 2014

BLINK ON AO3

*

’Now, Harry you must know all about Muggles, tell me, what exactly is the function of a rubber duck?’ - Arthur Weasley (CoS - Movie)

‘Don't blink. Don't even blink. Blink and you're dead. They are fast. Faster than you can believe. Don't turn your back, don't look away, and don’t blink.’ - The Doctor

- CHAPTER 7 -
Confessions

Their days turned into a week, and as the library stayed dark and musky, so did their results.

‘What was Kingsley thinking?!’ Harry burst out as he put another one of the Manor’s books away. They’d been spending every single day since Draco had arrived at the Manor in the library, going over documents and through scrolls and books. Harry couldn’t remember ever having read so much, and suddenly he had a lot of respect for the way Hermione had always done her research when they’d still been at Hogwarts.

Draco sighed in answer and put the parchment he’d been scribbling on down, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and index finger. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, and Harry noticed how tired he sounded. ‘Found anything?’ He nodded towards the book Harry had just put aside.

Harry shook his head. ‘No. Interesting stories, but not anything like us.’

‘Well, let’s remember to at least make a big fat notice about it, then,’ Draco answered. ‘It’s obviously needed.’

‘Bitter,’ Harry mumbled. ‘What’ve you been doing, anyway? You’ve been writing for days.’

Draco glanced at the stack of parchments in front of him, picked it up and handed it to Harry.

‘It’s your memories,’ he said, and when he saw Harry’s puzzled look he added, ‘the dreams I’ve been having.’

Harry took the pile and flipped through it. Most of the pages had an estimated age on them, season and subject. One of the bottom ones was named: The One in Which He Should Have Punched Dudley Dursley - Summer (Holidays?) - Age 9 or 10(?)

Harry grinned at the title. ‘Mind if I read this one?’ he asked.

‘You’re going to read your own memories?’ Draco answered, raising his eyebrows. ‘You’re even -’

‘Don’t,’ Harry said. ‘You’ve actually managed to make me smile, don’t ruin it for yourself.’

‘Or what, you’re going to finally fulfil your promise and break my nose?’ Draco teased, smiling as well.

Harry laughed. ‘One day. But for that I’ll need you back in your own body.’

Draco rolled his eyes and glanced at the memory Harry had wanted to read. ‘It was a particularly nasty one, that one,’ he said, nodding at it. He had his arms crossed now that he was no longer writing, his quill lying next to him on the ground, his head leaning back against the bookcase he was sitting against. ‘I figured that keeping track of what I was going through was the best course of action,’ he explained. ‘Document everything.’

Harry nodded. ‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘I should probably do the same.’

He looked up briefly before starting to read, but it didn’t take long for him to realise what Draco had seen. It had been a particular nasty birthday of Dudley’S. He and his two best mates had caught Harry and had locked him away in the neighbours’ shed, who had been on a holiday. It had taken the Dursley family a full day to realise that Harry had gone missing at all, as Dudley had told his parents that he was merely hiding under the stairs. It was one of the few times Harry had actually cried. In the end the door had opened all by itself, which Harry had disregarded as a rusty lock, and, hungry as he had been, he had staggered back to the place he’d had to call a home.

‘Like I said, nasty,’ Draco noted once Harry pushed the papers away from him, suddenly pale and sweaty.

‘Do you still visit them?’ he asked, and Harry shook his head. Following Draco’s fashion he leaned his head back against one of the bookcases.

‘Can’t blame you,’ Draco said when Harry didn’t seem to answer him. ‘Horrible lot, and not just because they’re Muggles.’

‘You know, that really isn’t funny,’ Harry said, his voice slightly hoarse.

‘It was just a joke, Potter.’

They stared intently at each other and however light the air between them had been, it had now been replaced by heavy tension.

‘Fine,’ Harry spat after a while, and picked up the next book from the stack that was still waiting for him while Draco snatched back the memories, picked up his quill again and continued writing.

The silence continued until Woldy came darting along the many books.

‘Mrs Narcissa wants to know if Master Harry and Master Draco will be joining her for supper,’ he said when he’d reached them.

‘Thank you Woldy,’ Draco said, ‘You can tell her we’ll be down in a minute.’

Woldy nodded happily before running off again.

Harry was the first to get up and leave, not waiting for Draco to catch up. He knew the Manor well enough not to need anybody anymore. Plus, he just really didn’t want to talk to him right now. Stalking on in silence he entered the dining room, greeted Narcissa and sat down.

‘Is everything okay, dear?’ she asked him as he waved open his napkin and put it on his legs. ‘I thought Mr Potter would be with you?’

‘Not to worry, Mrs Malfoy, I only made a quick detour,’ Draco said as he came through the door and sat down next to Harry.

Harry clenched his jaw. He had never fully understood how Malfoy managed to get on his nerves so easily, but he did. Forcing himself, he managed a smile. ‘Everything’s fine, mother,’ he said with as much calm as he could muster and took pleasure in Draco’s flaring nostrils upon hearing the word coming from his mouth. ‘We were caught up in the library.’

‘So it would seem,’ she said, and smiled back at him. ‘There was post for you today.’

‘There was?’ Harry asked.

‘You seem surprised,’ she answered. ‘You weren’t around so I had Clifton bring it up to your bedroom, I hope that is okay.’

‘Of course,’ Harry said and sneaked a brief glance at the door. He wondered who it could’ve been from. Maybe Kingsley had finally found something.

‘A mother does wonder what her son and an Auror are doing, spending full days in the library, though,’ she said and looked at Draco as steaming food appeared on the table. There was so much, Harry didn’t know where to look first. Even after all his time at Hogwarts, and now the Manor, the amount of food available often still amazed him.

‘Your son has been helping me do some research, actually,’ Draco said and Harry looked up, puzzled. ‘Plus, the Manor has a splendid collection.’

Narcissa smiled. ‘That is kind of you Mr Potter,’ she said. ‘And have you heard anything from our new Minister?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Draco answered her. ‘He is a very busy man, after all.’

She nodded in understanding. ‘Of course. ‘I wouldn’t have doubted it.’

Idle chit-chat accompanied the rest of their dinner, ranging from Harry’s choice of becoming an Auror over Draco’s interest in banking to their Hogwarts years, which had proven to be a slightly touchy subject.

‘I heard Miss Granger went back to Hogwarts?’ Narcissa asked Draco when they had sat down in the drawing room for an after-dinner coffee. Harry had taken quite a liking to their espresso, which had surprised Narcissa, since he, as she’d put it, had always been more into their assortment of differently-flavoured cappuccinos.

‘She did, yes,’ Draco answered for him, and Harry was suddenly glad that he’d somehow managed to pay attention to his life.

‘Draco wanted to, but for obvious reasons that wasn’t possible at the time.’

Harry saw Draco’s nostrils flare again, which he managed to cover up mostly by drinking from his still too hot coffee.

‘A smart choice, I must say,’ he said as he had regained his calm and looked over at Harry. ‘Of course, not everybody needs to.’

Harry knew it had been a jab, and a smart one, too, as - to Narcissa - it would merely seem like bragging.

‘I’m sure you are referring to your offered position as an Auror?’ Narcissa asked before Harry could answer him. Draco merely nodded.

‘Oh, I am,’ he said and a smug smile was tugging at his lips. ‘I guess luck is just one of my many qualities.’

‘What?’ Harry said loudly. ‘I’m not qualified to be an Auror, is that what you’re saying?’

Draco’s eyes grew wide and looked quickly at Narcissa before back up at a now standing Harry. He didn’t know what the look on Narcissa’s face was, or how much she’d understood from the comment, but he really didn’t care right now.

‘Will you sit down?!’ Draco hissed angrily at him

‘No, I will not,’ Harry said, still angry. ‘You know, I was actually doing quite well until you came along!’

‘With what, stealing my life, you mean?!’ Draco retorted as he stood up himself.

‘I was not stealing your life!’

‘Then what were you doing, exactly?!’ Draco was positively wheezing now, a vein Harry didn’t know he had pulsating on the side of his neck.

‘Will you two stop it?!’ Narcissa exclaimed. Both their heads turned towards her in shock.

‘Harry, dear,’ she said, looking not at Draco, but at Harry. ‘You are very welcome in this house but please respect my son, and Draco,’ she turned towards Harry’s body, ‘please, don’t scream.’

Neither of them said anything, nor did they move. They just stood there, eyes wide, not sure what to do next.

‘A mother always knows her son,’ she said finally, looking at Draco. Her voice was soft and kind, and as she held out her hand in a request for them to sit back down, they both did so.

‘For how long have you known?’ Draco asked her. His voice was small and, however much Harry hated to admit it, scared.

‘A while now,’ she answered as she looked back at Harry. ‘It were your eyes, when you came back from Azkaban, that told me.’

Harry didn’t know what to say. He wanted to apologise for lying to her, wanted to explain. But what could he possibly say to her? It wasn’t his fault this had happened, was it? He thought back to the day he’d first seen the man with the top hat. It had been a normal, though slightly stressful day. Malfoy’s presence had been the only thing out of the ordinary.

‘Mother...’ Draco said, but didn’t continue.

‘It is a little strange hearing you say that, Mr Potter,’ she said and smiled fleetingly at Harry. ‘However much I am convinced it is my son speaking to me.’

They all sat in silence again a little while longer, sipping coffee and looking idly around the room. Harry had downed his espresso fairly quickly, and was now looking at the patterns on the expensive wooden floor.

In the end, after what felt like many an hour later, it was Draco who got up.

‘I need to get some rest,’ he said as he put his cup down on the coffee table. ‘Mother…’ he started once more, but again didn’t finish. He turned around and walked away, rubbing his face tiredly and leaving Harry and Narcissa alone in the semi-darkness, the light of the fireplace the only thing in the room illuminating their faces still.

‘So, er...’ Harry started once the silence had swallowed them again. ‘I suppose you’d like to know what happened?’

Narcissa turned her gaze from the door to Harry. She had her hands folded neatly in her lap, representing so clearly his great-grandmother above the fireplace. Draco’s great-grandmother, he reminded himself.

‘I can’t deny I’m not in any way curious, no,’ she said calmly and smiled at him.

Harry nodded, reached out to put his own cup down as well, and leaned his arms on his knees, wondering where to start.

‘I suppose,’ he began, but stopped to rethink his words for a moment. ‘We think it started the day H… Draco and I bumped into each other at the Ministry.’

Narcissa raised her eyebrows at him, and without her saying anything he knew what she was thinking.

‘Well, we can’t be sure,’ he said and sighed. ‘Look,’ he continued, ‘I know how strange this all might sound. You wouldn’t -’

‘Don’t underestimate my ability to comprehend complex magical matters, Mr Potter,’ Narcissa cut him off.

‘I wasn’t -’

‘Then start explaining.’ She inclined her head slightly.

He exhaled slowly. Now that he was talking to her as himself instead of Draco, he found the words didn’t come as easily anymore, and he missed it. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he continued.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘The day Draco and I met at the Ministry I saw a man.’

Narcissa’s eyebrow shot up again. ‘You saw a man at the Ministry of Magic?’ she asked. ‘How unusual.’

Harry laughed nervously. This proved even harder than he’d just thought it was going to be. ‘It wasn’t just a man,’ he continued. ‘This man was… well strange is the only way I can properly explain it.’

And once more Harry dived into the story of what happened with the man, only this time he added what he and Draco had found out together about the memories. Then he told her what had happened at the Burrow and Azkaban, and how he’d ended back up here.

‘I can imagine how difficult this must be,’ Narcissa said once Harry was done talking. ‘However, I shall not pretend I don’t think this might not be a good lesson for both of you.’

Harry gaped at her.

‘Oh, don’t pretend you disagree, Mr Potter, even you must admit that it is.’

‘I honestly don’t see how,’ Harry said defiantly, resisting the urge to glare at her.

‘You don’t?’ Her voice was ever so gentle, but didn’t leave a doubt about him needing to pay attention. ‘There isn’t anything you’ve learnt since you and Draco ended up in the situation you’re currently in?’

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had. He had never known what kind of people Narcissa and Lucius had been, forgetting for a moment - and blinded by past events - that they’d been parents above all else. And Draco, the evil, pathetic, sneaky little ferret, wasn’t such an evil, pathetic, sneaky little ferret after all. Not counting the moments in the library during which he had behaved like a complete prat. But it was true, he supposed he had learnt things, and he hadn’t even realised it.

‘That’s what I thought,’ she said.

*

’You dare defy me, Narcissa?’ the Dark Lord asked in his high, cold voice.

Draco quivered and pressed closer against the wall. He was standing in the drawing room, but all of their furniture had been pushed aside to make room for a long stone table in the middle, adorned with several equally uncomfortable stone chairs. The Dark Lord moved around it, wand in his hand.

‘I had expected more of such a clever witch.’

His mother raised her chin, but took a step backward nonetheless.

‘Now move aside.’

‘No.’

Draco panicked. He couldn’t let her do this, he’d rather die than have her face his punishment, His wrath.

‘Mother,’ he said, his voice barely audible.

Narcissa raised her hand at him without taking her eyes off the snake-like face. ‘Stay out of this, Draco,’ she commanded. Her voice was stern and powerful, yet Draco saw her hand shake slightly in the light of the fire burning in the fireplace across the room.

‘You’ve done enough,’ she told their Master once more.

‘He made a choice,’ the Dark Lord said, his eyes finding Draco’s for a moment. ‘Don’t let his consequences be yours. Now step aside.’

He saw his mother take a deep breath, and he knew in that moment exactly what was going to happen.

‘No,’ she said. Draco saw Him raise his wand and scream a ‘Crucio!’ at her. She was crawling on the ground, grasping around, screaming. He screamed too, but it wasn’t out of pain, he was screaming for her, begging Him to stop. And He was laughing, showing a wide and cruel smile. He called out for Avery and Nott, and now Draco was being dragged away, down into the dungeons, his mother’s screams finding their way down to him until deep into the night.

Harry tried to scrub off the empty feeling the memory had left him with in one of the Manor’s guest showers, but was unable to. He despised what he had seen, and despised Voldemort for what he’d done. Narcissa had put herself in the exact same position as his mother had, yet he’d only used Crucio on her.

He angrily raked his fingers through his wet hair, breathing heavily. He missed his mother, but wasn’t sure which one, and he despised himself for it. Because if what he feared was true, then Draco had been right; maybe he had got a little too comfortable during the short time he’d spent happily at the Manor.

Tucking one of Draco’s many expensive -feeling shirts in his trousers, he set out for downstairs, but not before his eyes caught the three unopened letters on the small table next to the door. He couldn’t remember them being there when he’d set out for the bathroom and wondered who’d stopped by to drop them off. Maybe Woldy, but then, why hadn’t the elf brought them to him personally?

Shrugging it off, Harry reached for the first one, on which he recognised Hermione’s handwriting, and started to read.

Harry,

We’re so so sorry that we didn’t contact you before. Kind of feels like our fifth year all over again, doesn’t it? We promise you it wasn’t intended, but Kingsley advised us to wait until they had more information about both of you.

Well, they obviously do, although I fear it isn’t a lot, but that’s for Kingsley to tell you. He said he was going to send you his own letter, and he’ll probably visit you soon anyway. I think he is really starting to believe you, Harry, but Arthur says he still has his doubts. They fear Draco Malfoy might have cast a spell on you or something, but I’m sure he’s told you all about that himself by now.

Everybody really misses you, Harry. Molly is worried sick, like always. Arthur told her after they’d brought you to Azkaban. You should’ve seen her storm into Kingsley’s office. I finally understand what Ron means. Arthur is helping the Auror department out wherever he can, seeing as he’s one of the few people who can help them figure out most of the details at the Ministry. He’s really trying, Harry, but it’s difficult. Ron has started to help George out more and more at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. He really enjoys it and it’s done George loads of good. Oh! And I’ve probably found mum and dad. I should’ve made sure they wouldn’t move around. And Ginny… Well, she’ll be writing you a letter soon. I’m so sorry, Harry.

Lots of love,

Ron and Hermione

Harry scowled. Why would she be sorry? Quickly reaching out for the two remaining letters, he located the one sent by Ginny and picked it up. With his heart thumping loudly in his chest, he opened it.

Dear Harry,

Trust me when I say I’m sorry. Especially because I’ll have to do it through post. I never wanted it to end this way, and it hurts me as much as I know it must hurt you. It really does, and I’m really sorry.

I’m sure you remember when I met Wood during one of my matches. We hit it off and… well, he’s just been there like you simply haven’t been, Harry. And I understand! I’ve always understood. But I also understand that what I need is somebody who’s actually able to be there for me.

So, what I’m trying to say is: I guess this is where it ends for us. Again, I’m sorry. And I hope you’ll be able to solve this situation soon.

Ginny

Harry had no idea if he was still breathing, no idea if his heart was still beating. All he heard was a continuous noise in his ears.

Wood - of course he remembered. He was the one who’d helped her get further into the world of professional Quidditch. Harry also still remembered the screaming fit Molly had had when she’d found out Ginny was dropping not only full-time Hogwarts - as she’d been taking part-time classes with Hermione - but Hogwarts completely.

Harry laughed, but it sounded empty to his own ears. He didn’t know why, but somehow he’d always imagined them marrying, maybe even having kids together. He reread the letter a couple of times, but however much he tried, he couldn’t read anything else in it than he already had. Nor could he remember anything being wrong the last time they’d talked at the Burrow. Had she already been seeing Wood then?

Angrily wiping away at the tears forming in his eyes, he reached for the last letter. It was Kingsley’s, telling him that he’d be visiting him soon and asking him what dates would work best for him, accompanied by a piece of paper that held the Minister’s written permission to visit Ron and Hermione at the Burrow as long as he’d let the Ministry know when and for how long.

A knock on the door made him nearly drop the letters.

‘Potter,’ Malfoy’s voice came from the door opening, ‘What -’

Harry had turned to face Malfoy and had realised too late that he’d let his tears flow freely while reading Kingsley’s letter. He was allowed to visit the Burrow, but wasn’t sure if he really wanted to anymore. There were too many memories of Ginny there, and too many people.

He grabbed the end of his sleeve with his fingers and attempted to dab away at the tears, but Malfoy’s hand had encircled his wrist before he’d come even halfway.

‘Are you insane?!’ Malfoy demanded, offended. ‘That is Vacuna Sheep Wool!’

‘It’s what?’ Harry asked and noticed his voice sounded rather broken.

Malfoy’s gaze softened and he sighed. He took out his wand and conjured a very soft-looking piece of cloth, with pretty patterns sewed along its edges.

‘Here, use this,’ he said and let go of Harry’s wrist.

Harry took the handkerchief and mumbled a quick thanks before rubbing it over his eyes.

Once done he looked back at Malfoy. ‘You’re not going to make some snide remark, then?’ he asked, but immediately regretted it as he saw the pained look in Draco’s eyes.

‘You really hate me, don’t you?’

‘What?’ Harry asked, temporarily confused by the sudden question.

Draco shrugged, and for a moment Harry thought to see some insecurity in the gesture. ‘It certainly seems like you’re always expecting the worst of me.’ He shook his head quickly. ‘Anyway, what’s got you all upset?’

‘Why?’

‘Potter.’

‘Fine,’ Harry said, fumbling with the letters still in his hand. He extracted the one Ginny had written, opened it, and then closed it again.

Draco raised his eyebrows.

‘Ginny broke up with me,’ he said, looking everywhere but at Draco.

‘Well, that makes two of us,’ Draco answered him, and Harry looked back.

‘Ginny broke up with you too?’ Harry asked sarcastically.

Draco snorted. ‘No you st… No.’ He reached out and patted Harry on the arm. ‘But Astoria did not too long ago.’

Harry opened his mouth, but Draco interrupted him. ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘We need a drink.’ And walked out of the room.

Harry looked at the letters in his hand again and threw them back onto the table he’d got them from before following Draco out. Halfway down the deserted corridor, he caught up with him.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked as he looked at one of the paintings they’d just passed. There had been two men in the picture - probably father and son - but unlike the many blonds in the pictures around the Manor, these two had appeared as dark as many of Sirius’ relatives.

‘We,’ Draco answered him, ‘are going to the gardens.’

‘Right,’ Harry said and followed him in silence.

Once outside, Draco called out for Clifton and instructed him to bring out one of the Manor’s best scotches to the centre patio. Still Harry followed in silence and ignored the glances the butler shot him. He could only imagine how strange it might look, Harry Potter instructing him to bring out drinks, while a silent Draco Malfoy stood back, waiting.

Clifton had obliged, though, and soon they were sitting on a set of very comfortable chairs, drinking what was indeed one of the better scotches. Not that he’d tasted many of them in his life.

Draco was leaning back slightly in his chair, his eyes closed, idly moving his glass around in a circle, the amber coloured liquid within softly sloshing.

‘Astoria...’ Harry asked finally. ‘Isn’t that Daphne’s sister?’

Draco made a sound of approval, giving Harry the idea he was allowed to continue.

‘So why did she break up with you?’

Draco sighed, opened his eyes and sat up, putting his drink back down on the table. ‘I cheated on her,’ he said.

‘Ouch,’ Harry mumbled and took another sip. The liquid burned his insides, slightly softening the pain.

‘I can almost hear you think it,’ Draco said with a wry smile. ‘Go ahead, ask.’

‘With whom?’ Harry blurted out faster than he’d intended to. He had indeed been wondering, but had feared the question would be too intrusive. And to be fair, he liked them being on speaking terms.

Draco looked at him and took a big swig out of his own glass before answering. ‘Blaise,’ he then said without blinking.

Harry spluttered into his glass. ‘Blaise?’ he asked. ‘But… he is… I didn’t know...’ He coughed and felt the scotch burn inside his nose.

Draco smiled again, but this time it was a more honest smile. ‘Trust me, neither did I,’ he said and put his glass back down before leaning once more back in his chair.

Harry laughed softly. ‘Blaise, though?’ he asked.

‘Damn good kisser, if you ask me,’ Draco answered, and Harry’s face turned slightly red.

‘So what happened with you and the Weaslette, then?’

It felt as if somebody had grabbed his stomach and squeezed it, so he lifted the glass to his lips and downed it in a couple of big gulps, earning a surprised look from Draco.

‘You’re supposed to enjoy that,’ he said, slightly irritated.

‘She started dating another guy,’ Harry said, ignoring Draco’s last remark. He grabbed the bottle and poured himself a generous amount.

Draco’s eyes followed the bottle, but he let it go. ‘Whom?’ he asked instead.

‘Wood,’ Harry answered and, upon seeing Draco’s quizzical look, added, ‘Oliver, he was the Quidditch captain until our third year.’

‘The Keeper guy?’ Draco asked ,and Harry nodded.

‘Ouch,’ Draco said.

‘A little.'

Draco eyed him uncertainly, so Harry decided to answer his question for him. ‘She said I wasn’t there for her, and he was… or something.’

‘And were you?’

‘No,’ Harry swirled his glass around. ‘No, she was right about that.’

‘Did you love her?’

Harry looked inside his glass, willing back the tears that were threatening to fall again. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I really, really did.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What?’

‘I said I’m sorry,’ Draco repeated. ‘Is that really so surprising to hear?’

Harry shook his head and smiled at him wanly. ‘Just hadn’t expected it. So,’ he said and cleared his throat, very willing to change the subject now. ‘What exactly is Vacuna Sheep Wool?’

Draco let out a barking laugh. ‘You barbarian,’ he said through a whole different set of tears. ‘It’s a very expensive fabric,’ he continued and pointed at Harry’s chest. ‘That shirt,’ he said, ‘cost me about 10 000 Galleons.’

For a second time Harry spluttered into his drink. ‘Excuse me?!’ he exclaimed and looked at the spot Draco seemed to be pointing at. ‘Are you insane?!’

‘No,’ Draco said, grinning. ‘Just rich.’

*

Two whole bottles of scotch later they had abandoned the comfort of the patio and found themselves neatly secured under a big oak tree near the bank of a small pond.

‘The moon’s coming out,’ Draco said and nodded upwards at the sky.

Harry followed his gaze and indeed noticed a watery half full moon. ‘I like the moon,’ he answered, somewhat reminded of Remus. He missed him maybe just as much as he missed Sirius.

Draco snorted.

‘What?’ Harry asked, barely managing to suppress a giggle.

The corners of Draco’s mouth twitched. ‘Nothing,’ he said, and Harry noticed his words were slightly slurred. He looked over his shoulder as if the many trees, bushes and grass behind him would give him the answer to his question of how much they’d had to drink - he had lost count after his fifth glass. He swooned, and this time the giggle did set through.

‘Are you giggling?’ Draco asked.

‘No,’ Harry answered defensively. ‘And what were you snorting about, anyway?’

Draco leaned towards him. ‘I could moon you,’ he said. ‘Get it?’ He waggled his eyebrows and snorted again.

‘That’s just bad,’ Harry answered with a laugh. ‘And I wasn’t talking about that kind of moon!’

‘What? It’s not as if you’ve never seen it before,’ Draco said. ‘Don’t you like your own arse? I like your arse. It’s a damn fine -’

But Draco was shoved roughly sideways before he could finish his sentence, and found himself sprawled on the grass, his chest choking with silent laughter.

‘You’re drunk,’ Harry said and pointed sloppily at him.

‘No, you’re drunk,’ was the answer he got.

Harry let himself slump back against the bark and nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Very, very much so.’

‘You know what you need?’ Draco asked, still on his back.

‘What’s that?’ Harry answered and watched as Draco raised his arms above his head and spread his fingers.

‘A good snog,’ Draco said and moved his arms slowly back to the ground as if he had just revealed mankind’s biggest secret.

Harry shook his head wildly, nearly knocking himself over while doing so. ‘Whoa,’ he whispered and grabbed his head with one of his hands. ‘And no, Malfoy. Absolutely not.’

‘Malfoy?!’ Draco said. ‘One would think that we’d be on a first name basis after what we’ve been through.’

‘Pfft,’ was Harry’s response.

‘Such an intelligent comeback,’ Draco mumbled and lifted his head to grin at him before letting it fall back down on the now moist grass.

‘I know,’ Harry said. ‘I am very intelligent.’ Draco just laughed.

‘’S getting chilly,’ Harry continued and he shivered. ‘Give us a warming charm, will you?’

‘Give us a warming charm, will you, please,’ Draco answered, but raised his wand nonetheless. He waved it nonchalantly through the air, resulting in him needing several times to get it right. Finally a comfortable warm spread around them, wrapping itself around Harry as if he’d just crawled under a furry blanket. He hummed happily.

‘No wait, wait!’ Harry blurted out as Draco attempted to put his wand away again.

‘Huh?’ was the only reaction he got, but he crawled over to where Draco was still lying sprawled out anyway.

‘Can I touch it?’

Draco raised a single eyebrow at him once he’d reached him. ‘Touch what?’

‘What?’ Harry repeated, and once again, Draco waggled his eyebrows.

Not being able to shove him over again Harry resorted to thumping him hard against the arm. ‘Perv,’ he said and tried to keep a serious face, but failed.

‘Just my wand,’ he said and longingly found it lying still in Draco’s hand.

‘Which one?’ Draco asked. ‘Because they’re both yours, technically.’

It took Harry a while to comprehend what Draco had just hinted at. ‘You are impossible!’ he cried out and, laughing, let himself fall backwards next to Draco, who was happily laughing along with him. ‘This is the best drunk I’ve had in a long time,’ he said after his laughs had died down a little. His side was stinging a slightly.

‘Don’t you mean talk?’ Draco asked, and Harry chuckled softly.

‘No, I definitely mean drunk,’ he said and wiggled around a bit to get more comfortable on the ground. A cushioning charm wouldn’t have been unwelcome, either.

‘Well, glad to be of service, then.’ Draco closed his eyes. For a moment Harry was sure he had fallen asleep, until he spoke again. ‘Aren’t you curious, though?’

‘Curious?’ Harry asked, momentarily lost.

‘Yeah.’

‘About what?’

‘About yourself?’ Draco raised himself up onto one arm, facing Harry.

‘About myself what?’ Harry asked in return and followed Draco’s movement.

‘You know, what you taste like.’ There was no laugh on his face, no grin, not a trace of the humour Harry had had the pleasure of experiencing for the past hours.

He scowled. ‘What? Of course not!’

‘No?’

‘No. Have… have you?’ Harry pried, not sure if he wanted an answer or not. He was looking curiously at Draco, as if he were seeing him for the first time. He had to admit… No, no, it was just too wrong.

‘Might have,’ Draco replied without breaking eye contact.

Harry looked into those green eyes uncertainly. He didn’t know why, but he noticed Draco had taken his glasses off and wondered if he’d used some kind of eye modification spell. He should definitely ask him once he’d got his own body back. Without the glasses, he found his eyes looked even greener than normal, or maybe that was because he’d never looked at himself from another person’s perspective. Maybe his eyes had always looked this green. On the other hand, he was rather drunk.

Still staring into his own eyes, he noticed that Draco was slowly leaning forward. Closer and closer he got to himself, and now he could smell the soap Draco had used. It was different than the one he usually had at home: more spicy and with a whiff of something else, something Harry could only describe as manly.

Draco halted mere inches away from Harry’s face, making their noses touch. ‘Very curious,’ he breathed before slamming his mouth on Harry’s hard.

The odd sensation quickly overwhelmed Harry, and he let himself be pushed back onto the damp grass. He felt Draco’s tongue explore his mouth with utmost efficiency, which was strangely exhilarating to Harry and left him feeling rather tingly and somewhat curious.

Before he knew it he was moaning into the kiss, which only seemed to spur Draco on, who wasted no time and pulled the shirt out of Harry’s trousers and pushed his hand under it, exploring even further.

Reaching out, Harry found the black mop of black hair and, with a swiftness he didn’t know the alcohol still permitted him to have, pulled on his hair, breaking the kiss. However, just as swiftly, Draco found one of his nipples and gently brushed over it. Harry’s back arched as if it had a mind of his own, earning Draco a near-sob out of Harry’s mouth. Draco only chuckled before quickly covering Harry’s mouth once more with his own and continuing the kiss.

Harry decided he no longer cared how strange the situation was - snogging himself - and let himself surrender. He ignored the voice in the back of his head that was still protesting and granted Draco access to other spots and places Harry had no idea existed yet. Teeth nibbled on his lower lip as a knee insisted on making its way in between Harry’s legs, carefully pushing upward, resulting in more heavy-sounding moans. Kissing Draco back in earnest, he lifted his head a bit to get better access to the eager mouth. He felt Draco grin into the kiss and pulled back a bit to flick his tongue over Draco’s upper lip.

Harry opened his eyes: Draco was staring back at him, cheeks rosy and pupils dilated, his breath coming in heavy gasps.

‘Fulfilled your expectations then?’ Harry asked, but Draco merely grinned at him.

There was something odd about it, Harry noticed, but before he could comprehend what it was, exactly, that was unsettling him about the way Draco was looking at him, the man jumped up and stretched.

‘Time for bed.’ Draco’s voice was calm and sounded rather sober. ‘See you in the morning,’ he said, before he turned around and calmly walked away.

Chapter 8: Truths and Interrogations

[Fic] Blink (6/10)

lordes — Fri, 15 Aug 2014 10:47:34 GMT

Title: Blink
Recipient/Trope: Bodyswap for gatewaygirl
Username: lordes
Betas: lordhellebore, amorette
Pairings: Harry/Draco. Mentions of: Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione, Draco/Astoria, Draco/Blaise, Ginny/Oliver.
Characters: Harry, Draco, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, George, Arthur, Molly, Kingsley, Hawkes Hawlish, Auror Williamson, Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa Malfoy, Voldemort, Bellatrix, Nott, Avery, Gawain Robarts, original characters. Mentions of: Luna, Umbridge, Blaise, Oliver, Astoria.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Rating: R
Warnings: Suggestive M/M relationship, original characters, unexplainable magic, hurt.
Word Count: 46 000
This Chapter: 5877
Summary: When Harry is approached for a favour by Draco Malfoy at the Ministry of Magic, only in his wildest dreams can he imagine what will await him in the morning to come; and when a mysterious man in a top hat appears, Harry fears he might be losing his mind. With his friends by his side and a very troubled Minister, Harry is desperate to find a solution for his blond problem as fast as he can - only that might prove more difficult than he initially expects. As he slowly gets immersed in a life so unlike his own, Harry comes to realise not everything is as black and white as he thought it was, and that the bad guy might not be the bad guy after all.
Author’S Notes: Originally written for the HD TROPES Fic Exchange, 2014

BLINK ON AO3

*

’Now, Harry you must know all about Muggles, tell me, what exactly is the function of a rubber duck?’ - Arthur Weasley (CoS - Movie)

‘Don't blink. Don't even blink. Blink and you're dead. They are fast. Faster than you can believe. Don't turn your back, don't look away, and don’t blink.’ - The Doctor

- CHAPTER 6 -
The Ally

Harry had awoken in a cold sweat that night, and hadn’t been able to go back to sleep after. The memory was burned into his mind like the Dark Mark into the flesh of his arm. He had flung himself over the edge of the bed as another wave of nausea had hit him and had thrown up heavily on to the floor. Not wanting to stay in the room any longer, he’d got up and had roamed the dark corridors - flinching at every shadow - until the sun had been bright and shining.

Breakfast had been welcome that morning, and even though his stomach was still slightly cramping, he’d eaten a healthy amount of food. Narcissa hadn’t been there, and for that he’d been glad. He would’ve had no idea how to explain to her why he was feeling and looking the way he did, even though he guessed Azkaban nightmares would have been a reasonably believable excuse. However, he was still glad he hadn’t needed to use it; there was no point in worrying her any more than she already did.

It had been several days since that night, and even though the dreams had continued to flood him whenever he slept, he’d had no more unlucky confrontations with the mysterious man, who scared him more these days than anything had in a long while. He couldn’t help wondering time and time again what would’ve happened if he had actually managed to touch Harry, and if the reason he’d felt so very bad afterwards had been because the man had come closer to him than he’d ever had before.

He’d moved into a deeper part of the library that day: a part where the bookcases were so crammed together that no sunlight managed to get in and the walls were lit solemnly with torches, even though the day hadn’t even reached noon. Many a day he’d been spending in the library now, without news from any of his friends or Kingsley and without wand. He hadn’t received permission to leave the Manor yet either, but somehow he hadn’t been expecting that anyway. He had figured that if Draco was being supervised, so was he, and that his best course of action right now was to go back to the original plan: research.

Having taken another book about wizarding myths out of one of the high shelves, he slowly descended the old ladder he’d been standing on, the steps creaking loudly under his feet. He turned as he reached the floor, but backed away quickly - resulting in him tripping over one of the piles of books on the ground - as he thought he’d seen movement at the end of the isle.

When he looked back up he saw that his scare had been for nothing - like the last couple of times - and again he wondered if he might be going slowly mental. Brushing some of the dust off his clothes, he set out the way he’d planned to: to a little corner filled with books and references that he thought might be useful in his research. He sat down between two stacks of books - underneath one of the bigger torches - and opened the one he’d been carrying, looking for its index and word register.

Hours passed, and slowly the stacks around him were getting bigger and bigger, when he heard it: steps. He bolted upright, knocking over one of the stacks that held books he would be placing back in their rightful spots later that day, and backed up against the wall. His mouth was dry and his heart was beating heavily as the steps were getting louder. He wondered if he had blinked and if he had, why he was still able to move at his normal speed. Trying to swallow, but failing due his mouth being completely dry, he dared to call out.

‘Show yourself,’ he said, trying to sound authoritative, but heard the quiver in his voice nonetheless.

The footsteps faltered. Harry picked up the oil lamp he’d put on one of the books and lifted it high up in to the air.

Another couple of footsteps sounded, this time closer by. Harry turned quickly, making the lamp swing with the motion of his arm, its hinges creaking softly.

Harry’s breath was coming quicker now. There was nowhere to go and he had no way of defending himself except for an old lamp and a bunch of books. He thought of running, but had no idea where to. Surely the man would catch him anyway, and then he’d rather stay and fight.

When the voice of the person approaching sounded, Harry nearly laughed with relief.

‘Woldy didn’t want to scare Master Draco,’ it said softly from behind one of the bookcases. ‘Woldy is very sorry indeed.’

Harry lowered the oil lamp and took a deep and shaky breath, trying to calm his heart. ‘It’s okay, Woldy,’ Harry said, the same odd emotion hitting him as the elf stepped into sight, again with the same two mismatched socks.

Looking at the nervous elf, something else hit him. ‘Woldy,’ he asked carefully, ‘you wouldn’t have been following me around for the last few days, would you?’

The elf nodded. ‘Oh yes, Master Draco, Woldy has,’ he said happily, but his eyes quickly grew wide and his voice faltered in a soft squeak. ‘Unless Master Malfoy wouldn’t want Woldy to follow him. Then Woldy apologises of course, and Woldy will punish himself severely for making Master uncomfortable.’

‘No, no!’ Harry said quickly. ‘That won’t be necessary.’ He sat down the oil lamp from where he had picked it up earlier and rubbed his hands over his face. ‘Just don’t do it again, okay?’
The elf nodded uncertainly.

‘Why were you following me around anyway?’ Harry asked.

The elf’s eyes grew wide again, but this time not in fear. ‘Master called Woldy Dobby, sir. And Woldy was curious why Master would do so.’

Harry remembered the occurrence very well. The flappy ears and the socks had thrown him off completely and for a moment, just for a moment, he’d honestly believed that Dobby had returned from the dead.

He smiled sadly. ‘Yes,’ Harry said. ‘I remember that,’ and then added, ‘did you know him?’

Woldy nodded happily. ‘Yes Master, sir, Woldy did!’ He waggled a little closer to Harry and pointed two long fingers at his socks. ‘Woldy got these from him, he did,’ he said happily. ‘Dobby told Woldy to always wear them, and Woldy does, sir, Woldy does.’

Harry looked more closely at the socks now and saw that the purple one indeed had the Hogwarts crest on the side of it.

‘This one,’ Woldy said as he pointed to the sock Harry had been looking at, ‘Dobby got from the headmaster. But the headmaster had accidentally given Dobby two of the same socks, so Dobby knitted this one,’ he now pointed at the yellow one, ‘all by himself, and gave one of each to Woldy. It made Woldy really happy, sir, because now Dobby and Woldy would be wearing the same socks!’

Harry had laughed at the elf’s statement. He sounded so much like Dobby it almost pained his heart, but warmed him at the same time. He’d once made the mistake to give Dobby two identical socks, and the elf had told him the exact same thing Woldy had just now. Harry wondered for the first time if Dobby had ever knitted a second pair for the pair Harry had given him, too, like he’d had with what Woldy was probably referring to as Dumbledore’s gift.

‘So you and Dobby were friends, then?’ Harry asked the elf, who immediately started shaking his head.

‘Oh no, sir. Dobby wasn’t Woldy’s friend. No, Dobby was Woldy’s father.’

It was as if a bucket of ice had been dumped over his head. Dobby had had a son. And Harry had never known; had never even asked.

‘That’s why Lady Narcissa let Woldy keep the socks, sir,’ Woldy said. ‘Lady Narcissa and Master Draco both.’

Their eyes met. Harry didn’t know what to say. Did the elf know? But before he could ask, Woldy already answered his question.

‘Woldy knows what’s been happening to Master Draco, sir, but Woldy doesn’t know you. Woldy was scared at first, yes he was, but then Master called Woldy Dobby and Woldy was curious now. So Woldy followed Master.’

‘I...’ Harry started, but stopped. Once more he had been proven that wizards kept underestimating the power of other magical creatures.

‘I’m… My name is Harry,’ he finally decided. ‘Harry Potter.’

The last part had merely come out in a whisper, baffled and shocked as he was by his recent discoveries.

‘Oh!’ the elf said and started bouncing on his toes. ‘But Woldy knows about Harry Potter, Woldy does! Dobby told Woldy all about him in his letters from Hogwarts.’ The elf bowed deeply, his nose touching the dusty carpet of the library. ‘Woldy is honored, sir,’

*

’So this is where you work?’ he said as he followed Dobby into the Manor’s kitchens.

Dobby shook his head, his ears flapping back and forth as he did so. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘No, Dobby works everywhere in the house, Master Draco.’ He walked steadily forwards, dancing between pots and pans, workbenches and other elves as he did so. Draco had trouble keeping up, he was bigger than the house-elf - even though not by much - and less used to the busy kitchen.

‘This is where Dobby lives, though, sir,’ Dobby said and walked through the smallest of double doors Draco had ever seen. Ducking his head, he followed the elf and gasped as he took in the scene around him.

At least a hundred tiny little beds resided against the walls, all facing each other and all neatly made. Beside each bed was a tiny lamp resting on an equally tiny table.

‘Dobby’s bed is here, Master Draco,’ Dobby said as he pointed towards one of the beds nearer the door. ‘And Woldy’s is right next to him.’

Dobby smiled from ear to ear. ‘Dobby has been taking Woldy all over the house, Master Draco, to teach him all about what he has to do,’ he nodded happily. ‘And Woldy already really likes it.’

Draco was still taking in all the little beds. He’d always wondered where the elves went after they were done for the day, or if they were ever really done at all. Now that he knew, it made a lot more sense. He walked around the room while Dobby chatted away some more about his chores and the gardens, which he liked best. Draco knew this, of course. They’d met in the Gardens one day, while chasing one of his father’s peacocks. He’d stumbled and fallen over, scraping his knee. Dobby had been the first to come to his aid and had immediately brought him to his mother.

His father hadn’t liked it. ‘They need to stay out of sight!’ he had said angrily, and Draco knew Dobby had punished himself afterwards. From that moment on they’d met in secret, on his request, and Dobby had shown him all the hidden corners and rooms around the house. He often had the feeling his mother knew, and was very happy that she didn’t tell him off for it. Sometimes Dobby had come to him with his ears or hands bandaged, but Draco never understood why. Dobby didn’t seem to want to tell him, though, so Draco had just accepted it for what it was.

Back inside the kitchen Dobby let Draco pick his favourite cakes and sweets before sneaking out into the garden and eating them - together - under one of the many Manor’s apple trees.

*

Harry started to notice that the snippets of Draco’s life he was getting were closely related to what he had done, seen or said that day and so - curious as he was - he tried to find out new things about the body he was now inhabiting. Woldy helped him with this, showing him what Dobby had shown Draco all those many years ago: the kitchens, the house-elves’ bedroom and all the secret nooks and crannies of the house. Harry quickly grew familiar with its many passageways and was often reminded of Hogwarts.

Narcissa hadn’t been seen since he’d come back from Azkaban, and Harry was starting to wonder if she was avoiding him when he ran into her in the dining room. He had just sat down for breakfast when she came walking in, travelling clothes still wet with the drizzle of that day.

‘Good morning, dear,’ she said to him and handed her things to Clifton, who had followed her in at a distance. Her hair was tied back in a bun on the back of her head. She was wearing high trousers that reached up until the middle of her stomach - a row of buttons in the front of it - and a wide blouse that was tucked inside of it. She sat down elegantly as Clifton left the room with her things.

‘Good morning,’ Harry repeated, happy to see her again and, realising he’d missed the woman, he asked her, ‘Where have you been? I haven’t seen you around.’

She smiled at him. It was a knowing sort of smile, the one she’d given him many times before when she’d understood something he had not yet completely grasped as a child.

Puzzled, he was about to ask her when Clifton returned, carrying a silver plate containing their post.

‘The Daily Prophet,’ he said, holding the plate out to Harry who grabbed the paper, ‘and a letter for Mrs Malfoy.’

Narcissa lifted the heavy envelope off the plate and opened it with a flick of her finger. Her eyes were moving quickly from left to right as a scowl appeared on her delicate features.

‘Your father’s trial has been temporarily suspended,’ she said as she folded the letter back up and returned it to the envelope, which she put down on the table.

Harry glanced at the beige parchment, the fine handwriting of one of Kingsley’s secretaries clearly visible on the front. ‘Did it say why?’ he asked, and now it was his time to unfold his post.

The front of the Prophet was - like almost every day since the beginning of the trials - littered with photographs of Death Eaters and followers of Voldemort's regime who were going to be tried that month. Harry spotted the now pale and blotchy face of Dolores Umbridge jump out at him, but indeed the photo of Lucius Malfoy was missing.

‘Because of outside circumstances,’ she said, her voice cold. She picked up one of the heavy teapots and poured herself a cup, then handed the pot to him.

Breakfast with his mother felt normal, and he went through the motions without thinking about them twice. It felt natural to talk to her, and the anger and worry that were so clear in her voice were mirrored in his stomach. Looking at his plate he felt the hunger melt away, but decided to eat something anyway, knowing that Woldy had made sure to put some of his favourites on the table that morning.

‘Your father sends his regards.’

The words seemed to snap Harry immediately out of his train of thought. She was looking at him expectantly, and his answer came before he had time to think about it.

‘How is he, is he okay?’

Her eyes were still searching his, though he didn’t understand why.

She nodded. ‘He is as well as one would expect him to be under the circumstances,’

Harry nodded in return.

‘He was sad to have missed you, Draco,’ but before Harry could open his mouth to answer her, explain why he couldn’t leave the house right now, she had already continued, ‘I know you’re angry,’ Harry blinked. He’d been angry with his father? ‘but it wasn’t…’ She let her hand rest gently on her forehead as if pained by the memory. ‘He does love you, you know.’

Harry nodded again, and decided that staring at his plate was the best course of action right now. Draco had seemed desperate when he’d cornered Harry at the Ministry. Had something happened afterwards? What was she talking about?

‘I’m sorry,’ he said as he put his napkin back on the table before walking out. Maybe Woldy knew what had happened.

But he didn’t. He shook his head, making his ears flap in the way Dobby’s had all those years ago.

‘Woldy was never there when Master Draco went to visit Master Lucius,’ he said as Harry handed him another book from one of the top shelves which the elf would put on the designated pile. ‘And Woldy doesn’t listen to conversations he shouldn’t listen to.’

Harry chuckled at the defiant tone the elf had taken with him.

‘Oh,’ he heard Woldy say and saw him look nervously up from him, to something else Harry couldn’t see.

He quickly climbed down the ladder - jumping from the fourth step from the bottom - and walked over to where Woldy was standing.

‘Oh,’ he repeated when he saw who was standing in the library.

‘Good afternoon yourself,’ his own voice told him. Draco walked slowly up to him and pushed a scroll inside his hands before glancing over at Woldy, who was still looking nervously from Harry to Draco, and back. An odd look settled over Draco’s face, but he quickly managed to hide it, focusing back on Harry.

‘Interesting hide-out you have here,’ he said with a snarl and walked past Harry, giving him a small shove as he did so. Harry bit his tongue, eager but not willing to raise to the bait, and unrolled the scroll instead. On it was the neat handwriting of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Dear Mr Potter and Mr Malfoy,

As Minister for Magic it is my duty and obligation to inform you of the progress concerning your current situation.

I regret to inform you that no such progress has been made. However, as the current status of both you is currently home-bound, it is my utmost pleasure that I can share with you a development in the approach to the abovementioned research.

That is why, from this day onward until we, the Auror Office and myself representing the Ministry of Magic, deem the investigation fit for closure, you’ll both be working together at Malfoy Manor, hopefully with blossoming future results.

With kind regards,

Minister for Magic
Kingsley Shacklebolt

Harry stared at the scroll a little longer than necessary before letting it roll itself back up. He looked up at Draco.

‘I got the exact same one,’ Draco said, waving an identical scroll around. ‘Oh don’t look so surprised, Potty, yes, I checked both scrolls. Same thing, word for word. It seems your dear Minister friend doesn’t seem too sure of your version of the truth, does he?’ Malfoy grinned smugly. ‘How was Azkaban?’

Harry flew forwards before he even fully realised what he was doing. His hand grabbed the hem of Malfoy’s shirt - his own shirt - and he slammed him hard into the wall.

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ Malfoy wheezed. ‘Not unless you want me to give the Minister a quick call.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ Harry said, but let go anyway. Malfoy straightened his shirt as if nothing had happened.

‘No, I wouldn’t. Because, quite frankly, I prefer my own bodily freedom over temporary revenge.’

Harry glared at him. How he could’ve ever sympathised with this bastard, he had no idea. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘Just as slow as you were in schol, I see,’ Malfoy kept on taunting. ‘And here I thought you’d actually managed to read the letter.’

‘Do youwant me to break your nose?’ Harry almost yelled. His frustration was at its boiling point, and he knew for a fact that if he’d had his wand, he would already have hexed his own body into next Sunday, Azkaban be damned.

Draco walked around the open space Harry had claimed as his workplace, tapping several of the bookcases, torches and piles as he went.

‘I’d prefer you not to, actually,’ he said with his back to Harry, still tapping different things.

Harry heard him sigh.

‘How’s mother?’

‘What do you mean, “How’s mother”?’ Harry spluttered.

‘You really are daft, aren’t you?’ Malfoy said as he turned back around.

‘I’m not - !’ Harry started, but decided against defending himself against such a crude statement.

‘Should Woldy go?’

‘No!’ they both shouted at the same time, making the elf jump up and grab his ears.

Harry looked at Malfoy, who was looking right back at him, then at the elf.

‘How did you meet him?’ Malfoy asked, glaring, and Harry knew he meant Woldy. ‘Are you okay?’ he then asked the elf, who nodded happily.

‘Yes,’ Woldy said and let go of his ears who started flapping with the motion of his head right away. ‘Master Harry has been real kind to Woldy, Master Draco, sir. He has!’

‘You’ve told him?!’ Malfoy asked in disbelief. ‘Are you insane? What if he tells anybody else? What if he tells mother?’

Feeling oddly satisfied at Malfoy’s obvious worry, he missed his chance to taunt. Woldy had already answered for him.

‘Master Harry hasn’t told anybody!’ he said, the defiant tone he had used earlier back in his voice. ‘Woldy knew Master Draco wasn’t Master Draco. House-elves always knows these things, Master Draco should know.’ The elf nodded once as if to emphasise his point.

Malfoy’s mouth was slightly agape now.

Sighing, and hating himself for it a little bit, Harry decided to be the better person in the conversation, and answered Malfoy in the most normal tone he’d ever used with him.

‘I don’t know how he knew, either,’ he said, ‘but he’s speaking the truth.’

‘Of course he’s speaking the truth, you -’

‘Would it kill you to be polite?’ Harry interrupted him. ‘Listen, I like this situation just as little as you do, and I’m just as dissatisfied about...’ He waved from himself to Malfoy and back. ‘But if we’re going to keep arguing it’s not going to get us anywhere. And obviously Kingsley needs our help.’

He saw Malfoy grin.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘Except for stuck in the wrong body and you in Azkaban, probably.’ Malfoy said, still grinning, and Harry realised that it was an actual honest smile.

He cleared his throat, not managing to suppress his own smile at the joke completely. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s do this, then.’

He told Malfoy everything he’d found out, often handing him a book or two to show him a spell, curse or myth that could’ve anything to do with their situation. He also told him about the mysterious man, but Malfoy had merely shaken his head at that. Woldy, in the meantime, was helping by bringing them fresh tea and small sandwiches, which they ate under the flickering light of the torches.

‘So, we’ve got nothing, then,’ Malfoy said after Harry had finished talking. He was lying on his back, absentmindedly nibbling on one of the last sandwiches.

‘What do you mean, we’ve got nothing?’ Harry felt offended.

Malfoy sat back up. ‘Don’t,’ he said and pointed the sandwich at Harry’s face. ‘I mean exactly what I’m saying, and you should admit it, too.’ He put the sandwich back on the plate. ‘We’ve got guesses and vague indications, but no facts.’

Harry bit his tongue. Malfoy was right.

‘So this hat bloke,’ Malfoy continued. ‘He only appears when you blink?’

Harry nodded. ‘What?’ he said when he saw Malfoy was staring at him with a very strange look in his eyes.

‘Nothing,’ he said, and before Harry could protest he yawned and got up.

‘I hope you know where to find the guest rooms,’ he said sleepily. ‘Because I’m going to sleep in my own bed. C’mon, Woldy.’

Malfoy walked off, leaving a somewhat confused Harry sitting alone in the library.

*

He clutched his purple dragon a little bit tighter against his chest. The stuffed animal was a lot more worn out than it had been many years ago, but he didn’t care. A set of voices was softly carrying up the stairs, getting closer, making Draco scrunch his eyes shut tightly.

When his bedroom door opened, his last hope of being left alone melted away.

‘Now look at that,’ the first voice said. He heard somebody laugh. ‘Ickle little Draco is still sleeping with his teddy bear.’

He recognised the voice now. It was his aunt’s Bellatrix.

‘Wakey, wakey, Draco,’ she sing-songed as she came closer, laughing again. ‘It’s time to play!’

Draco didn’t move. He wouldn’t move. He would not give her the satisfaction of his fear.

‘I know you’re not sleeping.’

Draco’s eyes flew open. Her voice had come out at a whisper, yet it was loud enough for him to understand every single word, and her breath had felt hot on his face.

‘There you are,’ she cackled and grabbed his chin with one of her long-fingered hands. He wrenched it out of her grasp and moved back against the headboard.

‘So pathetic,’ she whispered and looked back over her shoulder at the man she’d brought. Draco didn’t recognise him.

‘Will you do the honours tonight, or shall I?’ Her grin was dangerously wide now.

Draco shivered. He didn’t want to remember, he didn’t want to feel. Clutching his dragon even tighter to himself he pulled up his knees, bowed his head and closed his eyes, praying for it to be over soon.

‘Crucio!’

*

Draco slowly blinked against the heavy sunlight. He was lying draped over the side of his bed, his arm hanging in a loopy angle, his breath coming in short gasps. A dripping sensation alerted him that his nose had started bleeding again. It usually did these days, after…

Forcing the thought away, he tried to lift his head enough to look around for his dragon, locating it somewhat further away on the floor. A big slash had ripped open his stomach, white flocks of stuffing lying everywhere. A sob escaped his throat as something other than blood started trickling down his face.

A quiet shuffling alerted him to another presence in the room. He closed his eyes quickly, not wanting to know who else had come for him.

However, it were no human hands who lifted up his face and mumbled a continuous ‘oh no’.

He sighed and tried a smile, but failed, turning into a grimace as pain soared through his body once more. He flinched.

‘Oh no,’ the elf said again. ‘Those bad, bad people hurting Master Draco! Woldy will… Woldy shall...’

He heard the elf stomp, his tiny hands still firmly on his face. ‘Lie back, Master Draco,’ he ordered, and Draco tried to oblige, but failed. ‘Woldy is going to take care of you, yes he is. And Woldy is going to make certain Master Draco will feel like his old self again before he knows it.’

When he next opened his eyes, it was to a warm cloth on his forehead and the sobbing of somebody next to him. He opened his eyes with much more ease than he had this morning, and found his father sitting on the side of his bed, clutching some of the bedding in his hand. Something else was moving swiftly around the room, and when he looked up he saw that it was Woldy.

‘I’m so sorry,’ his father croaked. ‘It’s all my fault, Draco, all my fault.’ He let out another heavy sob.

‘I’m so, so sorry.’

Harry woke up before the sun had fully risen. It wasn’t surprising, as he’d gone to bed earlier than normal as well. The memory he’d dreamed had been disturbing, and with that thought in mind he got up to take a shower.

However, no amount of water could shake off the uncomfortable feeling of having witnessed something so incredibly cruel, and after a good hour he gave up.

He quickly put on some fresh clothes, which he suspected had been laid out by Woldy - as he had no wardrobe handy - and started towards the dining room, wondering if he could already get breakfast at such an early hour. However, when Harry came past his own bedroom - Malfoy’s bedroom - he saw that the door was slightly ajar.

He’d never been very good at resisting sudden urges of curiosity, and so he opened the door slightly further and peeked in. Draco was lying curled up on his bed, the covers having slipped off him slightly at some point during the night, and in his hand - Harry’s heart sank - there was a stuffed purple dragon. He tiptoed backwards quickly, suddenly nauseous, and decided breakfast maybe wasn’t such a good idea already after all.

After having taken a long walk through the gardens, he finally felt ready enough to get some food inside his stomach. He had expected Draco to be done eating already, guessing it had to be somewhere around ten in the morning, but he was wrong.

‘Draco,’ his mother said somewhat distantly. ‘I didn’t know you were having Mr Potter over as a guest.’

‘Neither did I,’ he said, ‘until yesterday afternoon.’

Narcissa inclined her head. ‘Mr Potter was so kind as to explain to me the situation’ She sipped slowly from her cup.

‘He did?’ Harry said uncertainly, looking from Draco to her and back.

‘Indeed he did,’ she said. ‘And as odd as I might find it that the Ministry has so suddenly decided to put us under supervision, I am grateful Mr Potter has offered to do the job.’ She nodded politely at Draco.

‘I… of course,’ Harry said. He had to admit that it was the perfect excuse.

‘For how long did you say you were staying again, then?’ Narcissa addressed Draco again as Harry swiftly sat down and poured himself a cup of tea, trying to catch Draco’s attention, but failing. Draco seemed way too focused on his mother to even grant him as much as a single glance.

‘I didn’t,’ he said with his most charming smile, which Harry made a mental note to practise in the mirror when he’d get back into his own body.

‘But I am in no doubt that the Minister will let us know when the time has come for me to leave again.’

Narcissa sipped her cup again. ‘Well,’ she said after she’d put it back down, ‘I hope you’ll be able to make yourself at home. And if you have any questions I’m sure Draco would be delighted to show you around.’

‘Oh,’ Draco said, ‘I have no doubt about that, Mrs Malfoy.’

*

They’d retreated back into the library for the afternoon, Harry still reading book after book while Draco was scribbling away in a mad fashion.

‘What was that supposed to mean, anyway?’ Harry asked. It was the first thing that either of them had said since they’d entered the gloomy room.

‘Hmm?’ Draco asked distantly, sucking on the tip of his quill. Harry looked at the odd expression it caused on his face and wondered if Draco ever thought the same about his own body.

‘What you said to m… your mother,’ he said.

‘What about it?’ Draco asked, still not looking at Harry.

‘About not having any doubts that I’d be willing to show you around.’ He was starting to feel silly. Had he heard things that hadn’t been there?

Draco sighed, put his parchment and quill down and looked up at him.

‘What are you talking about, Potter?’

‘It sounded taunting, I thought we’d established-’

‘Of course I was taunting, and we’d established fighting wouldn’t get us anywhere.’ Draco said. ‘This wasn’t fighting.’

‘Fine,’ Harry said, and he saw Malfoy roll his eyes before focusing back on his scroll.

It wasn’t until they were walking down to dinner together that they spoke again. The sun was already setting, and Harry’s stomach was grumbling loudly.

‘Can’t you stop that?’ Malfoy asked him.

‘Stop what?’

‘Your stomach. It’s annoying.’

‘My stomach is annoying?’ Harry asked confounded. ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘Actually, I am.’ Malfoy said and looked at him. ‘I never let it growl when I was still in there. What have you been doing with me, anyway?’

They were turning another corner away from the library, and were now able to smell the food coming from downstairs. Harry’s stomach gave another loud growl.

‘What have I…? Oh knock it off,’ he said as he saw Malfoy scowl in annoyance. ‘I really should have broken your nose when I had the chance. See how you’d have liked it.’

‘You know,’ Malfoy said, ‘for all the talking we do about fighting I’m surprised you never punched that fat cousin of yours.’

‘What?!’ Harry said, stopping. His stomach had just dropped several inches. ‘What do you know about Dudley?’

Draco turned, having taken a few more steps before realising Harry hadn’t been walking with him anymore. ‘As much as you know about my past, I imagine.’

Harry gaped at him. They’d never discussed the dreams he’d been having, nor had he ever thought of asking Draco if he was going through the same thing.

‘Close my mouth, please,’ Draco said and Harry obliged quickly. ‘Listen,’ he continued. ‘I don’t care what you’ve seen or what you’re thinking, I’m not a pity case.’

‘Well, neither am I!’ Harry said but Draco merely snorted before continuing his way towards the dining room, which Harry followed in silence.

‘I really think you should’ve punched him, though,’ Draco said before walking through the opened doors, and even though Harry couldn’t see it, he knew Draco was smiling.

Harry smiled back.

Chapter 7: Confessions

[Fic] Blink (5/10)

lordes — Fri, 15 Aug 2014 10:41:59 GMT

[Fic] Blink (4/10)

lordes — Fri, 15 Aug 2014 10:32:57 GMT

Title: Blink
Recipient/Trope: Bodyswap for gatewaygirl
Username: lordes
Betas: lordhellebore, amorette
Pairings: Harry/Draco. Mentions of: Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione, Draco/Astoria, Draco/Blaise, Ginny/Oliver.
Characters: Harry, Draco, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, George, Arthur, Molly, Kingsley, Hawkes Hawlish, Auror Williamson, Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa Malfoy, Voldemort, Bellatrix, Nott, Avery, Gawain Robarts, original characters. Mentions of: Luna, Umbridge, Blaise, Oliver, Astoria.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Rating: R
Warnings: Suggestive M/M relationship, original characters, unexplainable magic, hurt.
Word Count: 46 000
This Chapter: 6070
Summary: When Harry is approached for a favour by Draco Malfoy at the Ministry of Magic, only in his wildest dreams can he imagine what will await him in the morning to come; and when a mysterious man in a top hat appears, Harry fears he might be losing his mind. With his friends by his side and a very troubled Minister, Harry is desperate to find a solution for his blond problem as fast as he can - only that might prove more difficult than he initially expects. As he slowly gets immersed in a life so unlike his own, Harry comes to realise not everything is as black and white as he thought it was, and that the bad guy might not be the bad guy after all.
Author’S Notes: Originally written for the HD TROPES Fic Exchange, 2014

BLINK ON AO3

*

’Now, Harry you must know all about Muggles, tell me, what exactly is the function of a rubber duck?’ - Arthur Weasley (CoS - Movie)

‘Don't blink. Don't even blink. Blink and you're dead. They are fast. Faster than you can believe. Don't turn your back, don't look away, and don’t blink.’ - The Doctor

- CHAPTER 4 -
Restriction 11B

‘Mate,’ Ron breathed, looking flabbergasted. He was on his knees in front of the fire now, his face inches from Harry’s burning one.

‘But… how?’ Hermione asked from behind Ron.

‘Listen,’ Harry said, trying to look past Ron, ‘can I come through?’

Ron looked back towards where his father had disappeared to earlier when he’d gone to fetch him and Hermione. There was a shimmer of uncertainty on his face. Harry could guess what he was thinking. Draco Malfoy inside the Burrow - what if his father came walking back in?

Hermione answered for both of them. ‘Or do you want us to come through to you?’

Harry couldn’t pretend he hadn’t expected this and took a moment to answer, moving his now aching knees from where they were still sitting on the hard floor of the Manor.

He shook his head. ‘No, Narcissa Malfoy can’t find out about this.’ When he saw Ron about to open his mouth he quickly continued, ‘Listen, I’ll explain it all later. Whether that’s here or somewhere else doesn’t matter. Some time away from the Manor at least would be nice.’

He looked at Hermione, who was still looking at him as if he were some kind of very complicated riddle to solve.

‘Can we tell Dad?’ Ron asked him.

Harry doubted it for a second. Was it wise? ‘Who else is home?’ he asked instead.

‘No one,’ Ron answered. ‘Mum’s away visiting Muriel, and Ginny’s at Luna’s, I think.’

‘Muriel?!’ Harry asked, and for a moment he saw the ghost of a grin appear on Ron’s face. He heard Hermione sigh.

‘Don’t be foolish, Ron,’ she said. ‘Muriel helped your family a great deal during the war, it’s only logical they grew fond of each other.’

‘You obviously haven’t spent more than twenty-four hours with her,’ Ron said, now really smiling.

Harry couldn’t help letting out a soft chuckle, earning him an appreciative grin from his best friend and a disapproving look from Hermione.

‘Anyway, let me get Dad, then. If you’re sure, that is.’

He looked at Harry, who nodded. ‘Yeah, I guess that’s fine.’

Harry racked his brain in search for something, anything that he could say to Arthur to truly convince him that he was Harry Potter, when Hermione spoke up again.

‘We were wondering why you’d called in sick.’ It was a statement, not a question.

Harry looked up. So Malfoy hadn’t done anything drastic, then. Good.

‘Do you have any idea how this happened?’ she asked.

Harry shook his head, but Hermione continued before he could answer properly. ‘Do you think...?’ She paused. ‘No,’ she said, ‘No, that’d be… But maybe...?’

Harry could hear an urgent sort of murmur coming from the adjoining room.

‘Maybe,’ Hermione repeated.

‘Care to enlighten me?’ Harry asked, getting somewhat impatient. His knees really started to hurt now, and he was pretty sure his wrists would be sleeping when he’d get back.

But before Hermione could as much as open her mouth Harry heard a very familiar - and now a lot friendlier - voice coming from the doorway to his right. ‘Oh my, is it really?’

Arthur Weasley was standing there with a still very nervous looking Ron close behind. There was a smile playing on his lips, and unlike Ron and Hermione, he seemed to find Harry’s predicament more fascinating than anything else.

Good old Arthur, Harry thought, smiling back at him. He felt oddly relieved at his positive attitude.

‘Really,’ Harry repeated. ‘And although I’m not entirely sure yet, I think I’ve discovered the use of the rubber duck.’

Arthur let out a roaring laugh at this, and even Ron and Hermione couldn’t help but smile.

‘Come on through, son,’ Arthur said as he walked further back into the kitchen. ‘Molly isn’t around, but I can see if I can boil some water for tea?’

‘That’d be lovely,’ Harry said. ‘See you in a second, then.’

He pulled his head back and immediately felt it spin before reconnecting with his body. He got up, dusting off his trousers, robes and hands, and rubbed his wrists a little. He wasn’t sure, just like using a Portkey, he would ever get used to the feeling of Flooing. In the end he still preferred flying over all other forms of transportation, no matter how much Apparition had grown on him. He grimaced for a moment. They’d never been able to relocate his Firebolt after the attack during the move from Privet Drive, and it still saddened him. Somehow it had been the last living proof of Sirius’ short-lived presence in Harry’s life.

Taking a deep gulp of breath he turned and picked up the big law book from the desk. He threw another handful of Floo Powder into the fireplace and set out for the Burrow once more.

Upon re-entering - completely, this time around - he saw Ron pull a face as if he were about throw up another bucket of slugs.

‘We better get you back into your own body,’ Ron said, ‘because I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get used to this.’

‘Have you contacted Kingsley yet?’ Arthur asked him as he pulled back a chair and sat down. An old iron kettle was already whistling softly on the stove, steam rising from its spout.

Harry copied his movements, sitting down next to Hermione. He shook his head. ‘Even if I made it as far as to find a way to contact him, I wouldn’t know what to say.’

‘What do you mean?’ Hermione looked even more puzzled now.

‘Zanna came by yesterday,’ Harry said. Had it really only been yesterday? He wondered once again what had happened to the time. ‘Remember that I ran into Malfoy - well, me - at the Ministry?’

Ron and Hermione nodded, but Arthur scowled.

‘I thought Draco wasn’t allowed inside the Ministry?’ he said.

‘Exactly,’ Harry answered. ‘So directly approaching Kingsley is out.’ He held up his hand when he saw Hermione was about to interrupt him. ‘I tried finding an Owlery of any kind in the Manor, but that place is a maze.’ He ran a hand through his hair and was pleasantly surprised when he felt it fall back as if it hadn’t been disturbed. ‘But even if I could’ve found an owl there,’ he continued, ‘I’m sure the Ministry would stop it before it would reach Kingsley somehow. So then I thought of going to the post office in Diagon Alley...’

‘Why didn’t you?’ Ron asked.

‘Well, that’s where you come in,’ Harry said and started explaining his worries about Restriction 11B. How he had been unable to find anything explaining it in the original verdict and how the law book wasn’t helping him much.

‘Oh, come here,’ Hermione said after he’d finished his story. She opened the book and started flipping through the pages in earnest.

Ron spared her a single glance before looking back at Harry. ‘So what about you?’ he said. ‘I mean, your body, obviously.’ He gestured at Malfoy’s body as he spoke.

‘Ron’s right,’ Arthur said as he got up to pick up the kettle from the stove, which had been screaming for its release from the heated fire below. Four mismatched cups came flying out of one of the cabinets and positioned themselves in a neat line on the counter. ‘I know you don’t like to hear it, but there could be a lot of trouble when he realises what power you hold in the Ministry.’

Harry sighed. Arthur was right, he didn’t like to hear it, and if he was honest with himself, he didn’t really understand it either. He’d just followed the path Dumbledore had so carefully laid out for him. He wasn’t extraordinary. Neville would’ve done the exact same thing if he’d had to, he was sure…

‘I went there,’ he said at last.

‘Where?’ Ron asked while at the same time Hermione said, ‘Oh! And how did that go?’ Arthur only raised his eyebrows as he levitated the cups onto the table.

‘Well,’ Harry said, choosing his words carefully now. ‘He looked as scared as I was, to be honest.’

‘You went to see Malfoy?’ Ron said, but before Harry could answer, he added, ‘He’s at Grimmauld Place?!’

Harry nodded. ‘Yeah. I was sure he’d something to do with it. But the longer I think about it -’

‘This is magic beyond any single wizard or witch,’ Arthur interjected.

‘What about your Patronus?’ Hermione asked suddenly.

‘What about it?’ Harry asked in return.

Hermione gave Arthur a furtive look before continuing. ‘Well,’ she said, but paused, and Harry knew she was searching for the right words. ‘I heard rumours,’ she went on. ‘Rumours about the Department of Mysteries.’

‘Those are only rumours, though,’ Arthur said directly to her.

Ron looked from Harry, to his father, to Hermione and back. ‘I’m lost,’ he said finally.

‘As am I,’ Harry said.

This time it was Arthur who spoke. ‘It is said that one of the magical aspects they’re researching at the Department of Mysteries is what you could call our soul or magical core.’ He looked at Harry. ‘I don’t know if you know this, but unlike us, Muggles don’t get a choice in what happens… after.’ The word was heavily emphasised, and Harry knew what he meant. ‘They think that because we get a choice, our souls - or however you want to call it - aren’t as attached to our bodies as we might’ve assumed. Of course, like Hermione said, these are just rumours.’

‘As were the Hallows,’ Ron said. ‘But those turned out to be more than true, didn’t they?’

‘So what does my Patronus have to do with it?’ Harry asked, now positively confused.

‘The form of your Patronus could indicate a great many things,’ Hermione answered. ‘And we’re all confused, Harry.’

‘Hey,’ Ron said suddenly, ‘didn’t you say that you saw a weird guy at the Ministry?’ His eyes grew wide as if he’d suddenly realised something. ‘That was you that day, wasn’t it?’

‘What?’ Harry said feeling slightly affronted. ‘Yes, of course that was me. I didn’t wake up like this until yesterday morning.’

‘K,’ Ron said, looking at the cup between his hands as if slightly ashamed of his accusation. ‘I was just checking, you know. Because of Malfoy following you down there and all.’

‘What guy?’ Arthur asked, sipping from his own cup.

Harry explained to him what had happened at the Ministry. Arthur shook his head calmly.

‘I’ve never heard of anything or anybody like that,’ he said. ‘Of course, it might just all be a coincidence.’

‘That’s what I said,’ Hermione added as the pointer of Ginny on the Weasleys’ family clock moved from Out to Travelling.

Harry groaned; he had completely forgotten about Ginny.

‘Do you want to go?’ Hermione asked him. She had noticed the pointer move, too.

Harry shook his head for what felt like the hundredth time that evening. ‘No,’ he said and sighed. ‘No, I should probably tell her.’

Ron pulled a face of utter disgust. ‘As long as the two of you don’t start snogging. I don’t think I could live through seeing my sister snog Malfoy, mate, I’m sorry.’

‘Ron!’ Hermione said, the shock clear in her voice.

‘What?!’ He said in return. ‘You can’t possible expect -’

But Arthur cut them off. ‘I think there are more important matters at hand than who is snogging my daughter.’ He looked at Harry. ‘No offence meant, son.’

Harry smiled, finding the situation surprisingly amusing. ‘None taken.’

There was the soft pop of Apparition outside, making Harry’s insides tighten, and the opening of the Burrow’s back door that led into the kitchen. Harry wanted to get up, to say something right away, and above all make sure she wouldn’t hex him. However, as Ginny appeared to be in a very foul mood, he didn’t get the chance.

Immediately after coming in she turned her back towards the kitchen table, taking off her coat and hanging it up on the peg next to the door, all the while venting furiously.

‘So I thought,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘you know, I haven’t seen Harry in some days, I’ll pay him a visit, too.’ She put up her coat with such force, the peg let loose a little.

‘However, instead of asking me in or being in any way glad to see me, he asked me what I was doing there!’ She turned, ready to continue but spotted Harry sitting at the table, rendering her speechless for a moment.

‘And what are you doing here?’ she finally demanded, hands on her hips. ‘Wait, no, never mind that,’ she continued and, apparently deciding to ignore the presence of Draco Malfoy in her kitchen, turned her attention full on her father, brother and Hermione.

‘You should’ve seen his face, too! As if he’d just seen a ghost.’ She angrily pulled at the rubber band holding her hair back. ‘Unbelievable! And then, you know what he did then? He slammed the door in my face! IN MY FACE! That insensitive, inconsiderate… What’s so funny?’

‘Ginny, sit down,’ Arthur said calmly, pointing at a free chair next to him. ‘Tea?’

‘No I don’t want any bloody tea!’ she said, her face red and hair as messy as Harry had ever seen it, now free of the ponytail she so often wore, but sat down nevertheless. She looked at Harry intently for a moment before redirecting her gaze back towards the others.

‘And is anybody going to tell me why Draco sodding Malfoy is in our kitchen?’

‘That’s not Malfoy,’ Ron said, but Harry heard he was being careful. He couldn’t blame him, Ginny was brilliant at hexing people.

‘I mean, it is,’ he quickly added when he saw Ginny look from Harry to him once more, ‘but like… It’s not him.’

‘Yes, Ron,’ Ginny said. ‘Please stop making sense.’

Ron looked to Hermione for help.

‘Ginny,’ she said, patting Ron on the hand twice, ‘you’d better brace yourself.’

*

‘No… That was Malfoy?!’ Ginny said after they’d finished talking. Just like with the rest, Harry had told her something very unlikely for Malfoy to know, namely some of the things they’d shared in their rare solitary moments at Hogwarts during his sixth year. He had blushed when he’d shared these things, as had Ron, whose face had turned as red as his hair and who had stared intently at a point on the far end wall, while Hermione had once again buried her nose deep in the book Harry had brought with him. Arthur meanwhile, had turned his back on them, Harry suspected as so not to intrude on this - although the circumstances where contradictory - somewhat private moment.

‘No wonder!’ She looked at Harry with her big brown eyes. ‘You know, you don’t exactly look too bad like this either,’ she said and gave him a very cheeky grin.

‘GINNY!’ Ron shouted immediately, resulting in Ginny putting up her hands in mock surrender. ‘Just kidding, just kidding,’ she said quickly, but Harry saw her rake her eyes over his body nonetheless.

He shouldn’t feel offended by this, she could’ve taken the news far worse after all, but somehow he still did. Huffing, he looked away from her and focused on Ron’s angry stare towards her instead.

‘You should probably contact the Ministry, though,’ Ginny suggested after some time.

Arthurs sat back down next to her, handing her a steaming cup of what smelled like cinnamon-flavoured tea. ‘That’s what we were discussing, before you stormed in, that is,’ he said and smiled warmly at his daughter.

Ginny hid her face in the mug, and Harry heard her mumble something unintelligible about it not being her fault, which went unheard or was otherwise disregarded by the rest of the people at the table.

‘So why didn’t you go to the post office in Diagon Alley again?’ Ron asked him.

Harry pulled his gaze away from Ginny and focused it on Ron. ‘I didn’t know if I was allowed there,’ he said.

‘Because of that 11B thing?’ Ron asked.

‘Restriction 11B, to be exact,’ Hermione said as she put down the book and looked around the table. ‘I found it.’

They all listened intently as she read the restriction out loud to them.

‘Okay,’ Harry said after she was finished. ‘So let me get this straight: I am allowed out of the house between 8am and 8pm, I may visit Diagon Alley, but only specific shops and places of it, I am not allowed inside the Ministry without specific written permission or in close proximity of...’ he nodded towards the book, ‘the list of people that is mentioned in there,’ he finished.

‘Correct,’ Hermione answered. ‘And don’t forget the spells you’re not allowed to do.’ She fixed a stern glare upon him. ‘Including the creation of a Portkey, which falls under a level 4 spell, and Malfoy’s only allowed to do spells up until level 3.’

‘Well they didn’t come for him, did they?’ Ron said. ‘So it must be okay then, they can’t have noticed.’

Arthur hummed approvingly. ‘You have to be careful, though,’ he said. ‘They might not’ve noticed it this time, but the spells they placed around the Manor and around you and Mrs Malfoy are there, and they’re working.’

‘Then why didn’t they work last time?’ Ginny said and looked from her father to Harry.

‘I can only guess,’ Arthur answered. ‘But my suspicion is that there was too much magical activity going on at the time at the Manor.’ He looked at Harry. ‘Meaning you got lucky when you created the Portkey to Grimmauld Place.’

‘But how can he just have got lucky?’ Ginny asked and downed the rest of her tea. Harry looked down; he’d completely forgotten his own, which had undoubtedly gone cold by now.

‘It’s like how the Ministry controls Underage Wizardry, isn’t it?’ Hermione asked, but obviously didn’t expect anybody to answer as she continued immediately. However, Arthur nodded nonetheless. ‘They can sense some magic being done, but not who’s done it.’

‘I bet Malfoy’s parents always let him use magic at home,’ Ron said softly and almost resentfully. He looked at his father from under his lashes.

Arthur ignored this. ‘Exactly,’ he said, smiling at Hermione. ‘It might’ve just been that they weren’t able to distinguish the magic that was being done. That doesn’t mean you should try it again, though’ he said sternly to Harry.

‘And what about the Portkey I’ve already made?’ Harry asked. ‘Can I still use that one?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Arthur answered. ‘But to be safe, I wouldn’t. Plus the restriction says nothing about Apparition.’

‘It’s categorised as a level 4 spell, though,’ Hermione offered.

Arthur hummed again. ‘But it isn’t exactly a spell, is it?’

Nobody answered. The clock on the mantelpiece softly chimed nine times.

Harry jumped up. ‘I should’ve been home for an hour!’ he said and was about to pick up the thick law book when Hermione spoke.

‘Would you mind leaving the book? I would like to read up on it a bit more.’

Harry smiled adoringly at her. ‘Of course not,’ he said and made his way over to the fireplace.

‘Thanks for everything,’ he said as the flames in front of him turned green.

‘No problem,’ Arthur said. ‘I’ll see if I can get Kingsley to come around for dinner sometime this week. That way we can prepare him and you can talk to him, maybe even have him lift some of the restrictions.’

‘That would be fantastic,’ Harry said and gave everybody his final goodbyes for the day before stepping inside the fireplace and stating loud and clear, ‘Malfoy Manor.’

There was a loud bang and Harry felt himself being shot forwards. He collided heavily with the wall, letting out a soft Oof! as he did so. Pieces of the fireplace were flying around his ears, and the air was filled with ash and dust. He heard someone cough heavily.

‘What happened?!’ Ginny asked. He could hear the shock clear in her voice.

Trying to answer, he inhaled a mouthful of the blackened air himself and started coughing too, when several loud pops resonated around them.

Several things happened at once: he heard a booming male voice yell that they needed to lay down their wands, Hermione yelped and Ron cursed heavily, then Arthur bellowed, ‘Ron, don’t!’ before Harry was being grabbed roughly by two different sets of hands. He was pulled out from the kitchen and into the living room before being forced onto his knees. Looking around, he saw that the men who were grabbing him were clad in Auror robes, although he couldn’t make out who they were. His eyes were watering severely, and tears were streaking his now dirty face.

He heard one of the two men behind him mutter Incarcerous and felt his hands being tied together behind his back.

‘You’re in trouble now, Malfoy,’ the other said, and now Harry recognised his voice. It was Hawkes Hawlish, one of the Aurors who had once tried to remove Hagrid from Hogwarts during the reign of Dolores Umbridge. His voice was smug. He gave Harry a small smack on the back of the head before following his partner and making his way back towards the kitchen.

Harry blinked furiously. Where had they gone wrong? Had the Manor locked itself up after 8pm and was that how he’d set off something in the Ministry? Cursing under his breath, he tried to wipe away some of the still lingering dust and tears in his eyes on his shoulder. He blinked again, and slowly the scene around him was becoming clearer.

Hermione was first to enter the living room. She was holding her hands up high while Hawlish was pointing his wand firmly between her shoulder blades. She shot Harry a wide-eyed look as if wanting to tell him something, and not for the first time in his life, Harry wished he was a better Legilimens.

Next were Ron and Ginny, led inside by Williamson. Harry had only seen him twice, but knew he was valued highly by Kingsley.

Last to enter the room was Arthur, right behind Williamson, and in a heated discussion with the man.

‘Like I said, Williamson,’ Arthur said, ‘there is a time to act and a time to listen.’

Harry looked at all of them, and saw they were just as dirty looking as he felt he was himself.

Williamson just grinned. ‘Indeed Arthur,’ he said. ‘and now, as you will probably agree, is not that time.’ The words lingered in the air for a moment, Mr Weasley looking from Williamson to Hawlish and finally to Harry as Hawlish once more grabbed him, this time by the ropes around his wrists, and hoisted him up straight again.

‘Time to go, scum,’ he said and pushed Harry forward hard.

‘And you,’ he said as he pointed with his free hand at Hermione, Ron, Ginny and Arthur, ‘you can all expect an official Ministry warning before dawn.’

‘Draco,’ Harry heard and for a moment he didn’t realise Hermione was addressing him. ‘Draco,’ she repeated, more urgently this time. Harry looked at her.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll contact… Harry... and Kingsley, and meet you at the Ministry.’

Harry nodded, hoping above all else Draco would see reason and cooperate. Even if it was only for his own good.

Williamson tutted. ‘Oh, but don’t you know?’ he said in a smug voice, the grin still on his face growing even bigger. ‘The Ministry is not where this one’s going. He’s going straight to Azkaban, aren’t you?’ He walked over to where Harry stood, still held firmly by Hawlish, and grabbed his chin, forcing him to look up at the much bigger, much broader man’s face. Harry saw that there was a big chunk missing from the right side of his nose. He bit his tongue to bite back a retort.

‘Right where he belongs,’ Hawlish chuckled.

‘But you can’t do that!’ he heard Hermione say. Her voice was high and sounded slightly panicked, and he could understand why. One of the first things Kingsley had done after being established as temporary Minister for Magic was to dismiss all Dementors from Azkaban. However, the lack of their presence hadn’t exactly cheered up the place, and to keep the prisoners safely locked away, security had gone up severely.

‘And why would that be?’ It was Hawlish who’d spoken, sounding almost bored.

‘I read up on it,’ Hermione answered him, uncertainty clear in her eyes as she sought eye contact with Mr Weasley before looking back at the Auror. ‘According to the restriction as stated in wizarding law, upon breaking or violating there’ll be an automatic follow-up trial to determine the possible severity of the offence and the possible consequences that it’ll carry with it.’

Hawlish didn’t even seem to bat an eye at this. ‘And so there will be,’ he said. ‘But as your friend Mr Weasley,’ he looked at Ron, ‘will, undoubtedly, be able to tell you, the Wizengamot is rather occupied at the moment.’

Harry saw Hermione open her mouth to continue the argument, but was immediately stopped by Arthur.

‘Hermione,’ he said, his voice strict.

As Harry was escorted out he dared one fleeting look over his shoulder and saw Arthur shake his head at him, eyes firmly fixed upon his own. Still trying to figure out what exactly he’d meant by it, he felt the familiar pull of side-along Apparition.

*

He was sitting on one of his father’s thighs, his legs in between the grown man’s legs, his head leaning against the broad shoulder. Long, silvery blond hair was falling in front of his face. He started playing with it.

There was a loud wind howling outside, and heavy white flocks were slowly falling down through it, often being swept aside. Across the room from him was an enormous fireplace, the portrait of his long deceased great-grandmother softly smiling down at him.

His eyes were drooping as he focused once again on his father’s deep and calming voice.

’In time, the brothers reached a river too deep to wade through and too dangerous to swim across. However, these brothers were learned -’

He let his thoughts wander again. It was one of his favourite stories, and his father was always glad to read it to him. To be able to be so powerful as to trick Death himself… he shuffled closer to his father’s warm body. One day he’d be a strong wizard, too. He’d have his own wand and would do the strongest spells in the whole world, just like his father.

‘I think he’s fallen asleep, Lucius,’ a soft female voice sounded from the doorway.

When his father spoke to answer, it was clear he was smiling. ‘No he has’t, I can feel him playing with my hair.’

Draco nodded absentmindedly, not wanting his father to stop reading the story, not wanting to go to bed yet.

Feeling his mothers hands softly comb through his hair, he looked up. His father had already closed the book. He could see the battered cover of it; it was probably generations old already.

‘Come on love,’ he heard his mother say and saw her open her arms for him. He greedily reached out for her and wrapped his own around her neck, hiding his face in his favourite spot.

Harry groaned, rubbing his heavy eyes and trying to sit up. He’d been tossed in a dark cell carelessly the night before and had tried to find a somewhat comfortable position to get some sleep in. Apparently, it had worked. He opened his eyes and saw the soft glow of the early morning sun shine through one of the tiny windows some good fifty feet outside and above his cell, casting a small rectangle of light on the dirty prison floor and lighting up the specks of dust floating freely in the air. He’d had another one of those dreams. Closing his eyes for a moment, he tried to recall it. It seemed clearer than it had before, and this time he was sure he’d - unless he had imagined it all - looked inside one of Malfoy’s memories.

He shivered. Even without the Dementors the place still seemed unnaturally cold, as if - even though they weren’t physically present - their ghosts still roamed free.

Hours passed before anything happening, the only sound piercing the deafening silence an occasional moan or scream in the distance, leaving Harry’s skin covered in goosebumps. It wasn’t until the figure of light on the floor had turned an orangey red that he heard a pair of footsteps approaching him.

‘Get up!’ one of the two men ordered when they had reached the bars keeping Harry from the outside world. Both men were wearing black Azkaban robes, a red and circled A visible on the right side of their chest. They were carrying some kind of big black clubs, with which the first Guard was now impatiently tapping the metal in front of him. Harry knew that the Guards of Azkaban were not allowed to carry wands with them anymore when escorting prisoners from one point to the other, and instead had to resort to Muggle violence and consequences if somebody were to cause trouble. There was just too much risk of a detainee trying to steal a wand in a desperate attempt to escape the hole they’d been put in, and so it had been made a general rule.

As Harry got up the second Guard - a bulky man with short, black hair and deep sunken eyes - took hold of the shackles and chains priorly being slung over one of his shoulders.

‘Move towards the back of the cell and face the wall,’ the bulky man said, ‘and no funny business.’

Harry did as he was told, turning and facing the damp and mouldy wall. Behind him he heard a big set of keys being pulled out of a pocket, one of them being inserted into the - by the sound of it - old and rusty lock. He heard the second Guard approach from the sound the shackles were making dangling from his hand, and felt two muscled arms come around his waist.

His hands were shackled together, the rest of the chains fastened around his waist, holding his arms firmly down.

A pull on the chain hanging on his back indicated it was time to move, so he turned and followed the first Guard out, while the second trailed them from a little bit behind, ready to strike if Harry were to try something.

With a final shove, Harry stumbled into a square room with a ceiling so high he wasn’t sure there even was a ceiling, the only indication of the walls going up higher being two tiny and now red-coloured specks of light in the distance, giving him the overall feeling of being stuck down a very deep well.

Harry turned and looked around for the door he had just come through, but fund nothing but empty walls wherever he looked. In the middle of the room stood a table with two chairs, one on each opposite side of it and in one of the chairs was none other than Harry Potter himself.

Said Harry Potter launched forward at the sight of him, rounded the table in no time and punched him hard on the nose.

‘Two day!s’ he snarled. ‘Two days! I leave you alone for two days!’

Harry stood bent over, blood dripping out of his nose. With his hands shackled the way they were he couldn’t confirm if it was broken or not, but he feared the worst. Breathing heavily he looked up and let himself fall back against one of the walls.

‘Yes, because I wanted this to happen,’ Harry said with half a sneer, his nose throbbing heavily. ‘I didn’t exactly do it on purpose, you know.’

‘Not on…?!’ Draco was positively fuming now. ‘If you’re as stupid as you are you don’t need to want to do it on purpose!’

‘You didn’t think I was so stupid when you came begging me at the Ministry the other day!’

Draco said nothing. Instead he glared at him with Harry’s own bright green eyes, so Harry continued.

‘And if you actually put that arrogant brain of yours to use once in a while, you’d remember that I came to you for help. You could’ve t-’

‘You came to accuse me!’ Draco yelled. But before Harry could have shouted anything back at the prat, Kingsley’s booming voice resonated around the room as if coming from the walls itself.

‘ENOUGH!’

Had he been able to hear the whole conversation? Harry looked around the room once more, now picturing Ron and Hermione standing somewhere behind the stone wall. Able to see him and hear him but he not able to see and hear them.

‘Harry,’ Kingsleys voice once again sounded, ‘come back here for a moment. Mr Malfoy, sit down.’

A door appeared suddenly at the other side of the room, its contours now visibly on the dark wall. As it slowly slided open Draco made his way over to it before turning and sneering at Harry.

‘He means you, Mr Malfoy,’ he said and exited the room, the door disappearing as abruptly as it had appeared.

Harry, slightly confused as to what was going on at the moment, pulled the second chair back with his foot and sat down in it, uncomfortably so as he had to keep his legs spread in order not to squish his hands.

For a fleeting moment Harry was sure they were going to leave him here, in the deep room - or was it high? - without any way of escape, tied up and unable to eat, his only companion the slow and soft dripping of his blood down his chin and onto his shirt, when the door once again reappeared, this time letting in a dark and tall man Harry knew all too well.

‘Kingsley,’ he breathed, relief spreading through him.

‘I was watching the two of you just now,’ Kingsley said as he sat down in the chair Draco had occupied earlier. ‘It was very interesting indeed.’

Harry said nothing, hoping Kingsley had understood, that he believed him.

‘Arthur spoke to me,’ Kingsley continued.

Hope flared up inside of him. ‘So you believe -’ he started, but Kingsleys raised hand stopped him before he could finish the sentence.

‘I’m not sure yet,’ Kingsley said, his eyes piercing Harry.

Chapter 5: Dreams Unravelled

[Fic] Blink (3/10)

lordes — Fri, 15 Aug 2014 10:27:18 GMT

[Fic] Blink (2/10)

lordes — Fri, 15 Aug 2014 10:22:03 GMT

Title: Blink
Recipient/Trope: Bodyswap for gatewaygirl
Username: lordes
Betas: lordhellebore, amorette
Pairings: Harry/Draco. Mentions of: Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione, Draco/Astoria, Draco/Blaise, Ginny/Oliver.
Characters: Harry, Draco, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, George, Arthur, Molly, Kingsley, Hawkes Hawlish, Auror Williamson, Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa Malfoy, Voldemort, Bellatrix, Nott, Avery, Gawain Robarts, original characters. Mentions of: Luna, Umbridge, Blaise, Oliver, Astoria.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Rating: R
Warnings: Suggestive M/M relationship, original characters, unexplainable magic, hurt.
Word Count: 46 000
This Chapter: 6017
Summary: When Harry is approached for a favour by Draco Malfoy at the Ministry of Magic, only in his wildest dreams can he imagine what will await him in the morning to come; and when a mysterious man in a top hat appears, Harry fears he might be losing his mind. With his friends by his side and a very troubled Minister, Harry is desperate to find a solution for his blond problem as fast as he can - only that might prove more difficult than he initially expects. As he slowly gets immersed in a life so unlike his own, Harry comes to realise not everything is as black and white as he thought it was, and that the bad guy might not be the bad guy after all.
Author’S Notes: Originally written for the HD TROPES Fic Exchange, 2014

BLINK ON AO3

*

’Now, Harry you must know all about Muggles, tell me, what exactly is the function of a rubber duck?’ - Arthur Weasley (CoS - Movie)

‘Don't blink. Don't even blink. Blink and you're dead. They are fast. Faster than you can believe. Don't turn your back, don't look away, and don’t blink.’ - The Doctor

- CHAPTER 2 -
An Unwelcome Awakening

Something was off.

A soft breeze flowed through his hair, and as he moved, a pillow far softer than the one he had got used to over the past year at Grimmauld Place moved under his cheek. Harry opened his eyes and blinked heavily against the bright morning sun. A morning sun coming from a window on a side of the room where no window should be. A window which was in a room far bigger than the one he should have woken up in. As he reached out for his glasses, he found nothing but more soft pillows and heavy covers. He rubbed his eyes hard and blinked again a few times. Everything was so clear. So perfectly clear and crisp and bright and visible. He let out a soft gasp and raised a hand in front of his face. Waving it back and forth, he smiled at the clear image . However, his smile soon turned into a scowl when he realised that he was seeing not his own, but a far slimmer, far paler hand move in front of his eyes. Sitting up in the king-sized bed, he took a good look around himself. The room was large and round. The bed he had woken up in was facing a ceiling-high, wooden double-door. On the left of this door stood a low table on which a very heavy-looking vase was resting, containing a bouquet of the most beautiful and exotic flowers he’d ever seen. On both sides of the bed were a set of bedside tables and - just like the double door - ceiling-high windows. In front of these windows hung thick, golden-brown curtains that flowed in an arch back halfway to the floor where they were gathered by a black strap to the wall. Harry had no memory of ever being in a room like this, nor coming to one the night before. Harry got out of the bed, carefully, even though he wasn’t sure what he was being careful of, and walked around the room in search for his wand. The bedside tables were empty save for a few books he didn’t recognise, and since his clothes were nowhere to be seen save for the unfamiliar pyjama bottoms he was wearing, he had no idea where his wand could be. He swallowed hard, trying to get past the lump now forming in his throat. Where was he? He moved towards the bedroom doors, still eyeing the room around him cautiously as if somebody were about to jump out and attack him.

When he was about to open one of the heavy looking doors, his heart almost stopped ,and for a moment, he didn’t dare turn his head properly. The low table he’d spotted from the bed contained not only the vase and flowers, but also a small pedestal on which a single wand was lying. However, as familiar as this wand was to him, it was not his. Not anymore.

Slowly he reached out for it, his fingers resting momentarily just an inch above the dark wood before his hand closed around the handle. The familiar tingle of wand finding owner soared through his body, leaving his toes and fingers tingling in the afterglow. A shaky breath escaped him as he pointed the wand at the small table. He gave it a quick swish and flick and even though he had expected it, his heart still skipped a beat in surprise when it actually floated upward somewhat. Lowering the table back towards the ground - the vase and flowers shaking a bit with the movement - his eyes rested once more upon the pale and slender hand holding the wand that wasn’t supposed to be his, but felt and obeyed him as if it were. As if he’d never returned it to its rightful owner. As if he’d never sent it back to Draco Malfoy.

Heart beating fast, he took another good look around the room, the wand still clutched tightly in his hand. He raised his free one towards his face and gently touched it, before letting it move through the too-soft strands of hair. Extracting a single one, he held it up close to his face, examining it: blond. With his heartbeat now very present in the back of his throat, he looked around for a mirror, already knowing he wouldn’t be finding one inside the room. He turned and pushed open the door, exiting and looking around. He was in a hallway now, facing a wall going up into an arched ceiling. Taking what he hoped would be a lucky guess, he turned left and started walking, trying one random door after another, finding nothing but what looked like guestrooms, empty chambers or locked ways.

'Finally,' he mumbled as he turned another corner, the somewhat familiar voice unsettling him. He spotted what looked like the side of a large frame containing an equally large mirror against the right wall of the passage he was now walking through, and moved towards it.

Reaching his destination in three quick strides he stopped right before he entered the mirror’s direct reflection, doubting, not sure he would be willing to accept what he would see.

He turned and looked back the way he came. Cursing under his breath and deciding he hadn’t saved the world by waiting or running, he scrunched his eyes closed and stepped in front of the polished metal.

Harry balled his free hand tightly into a fist, his fingernails digging into soft skin, and forced himself to open at least one of his eyes.

He didn’t move as the realisation of the situation slowly sank in, nor was he sure he was still breathing. He tried to swallow, but failed, his mouth too dry to produce any more saliva. He knew he had expected something of the sort, but the confirmation of what had actually happened to him was, for a moment or so, too much to process. Approaching the mirror further, he touched the cold glass with his fingertips, watching Draco Malfoy’s reflection do the same.

'No,' he heard and saw himself whisper as his eyes, Malfoy’s eyes, found the Malfoy in the mirror. 'No…'

He pinched himself once, hard. Wincing, he rubbed the now sore spot and once more cursed under his breath. A soft blush crept up into his cheeks when he heard himself in the unaccustomed accent. He sighed deeply before taking another quick glance in the mirror and deciding it was time for a shower. If he could find one…

*

Harry didn’t know if it took him fifteen minutes, half an hour, or an hour, but when he finally entered the bathroom he couldn’t believe his eyes. As if the Manor - where he figured by now he must be - was trying to outdo itself, this room appeared even bigger than any of the other rooms he had encountered so far on his trip through the mansion. The floor, walls and ceiling appeared to be made out of one piece of brilliant cream-coloured marble, a tub as big as a small swimming pool gleamed golden in the middle of it all, with at least a dozen or so taps around its edges. Exotic plants like the flowers he’d seen in Malfoy’s room adorned every corner of the bathroom, and if that wasn’t enough, a beam of bright sunlight shone in through a single ceiling window, giving the whole room an even more magical glow than it already had.

He approached the tub, discarding his pyjama bottoms while doing so, and noticed there wasn’t anything to turn the many tabs on with.

'Er,' he said to the empty room and, not sure what to do, pointed his… Malfoy’s wand at one of them. He looked over his shoulder as if to make sure nobody could hear him. 'Water,' he tried, and when that didn’t immediately yield a result, he added, ‘please.’

One of the golden taps immediately started spouting water, however, no steam seemed to come off it. Curious Harry moved closer and upon holding his hand underneath the stream he found the water to be cold as ice.

‘So, no warm water then,’ he said, slightly annoyed. To his surprise, the first tap stopped, while another one opened, this time releasing a steaming hot stream.

Harry frowned and looked from the now flowing tap to the wand in his hand and back. He hadn’t raised it and was now wondering… Leaving the wand on the edge of the tub, he stepped into the water. Warmth engulfed him and he closed his eyes, relishing the moment. As the tub filled itself all the way to the rim, Harry let himself go down under the surface. When he came back up he wondered, just fleetingly, about bath soap. He hadn’t even finished the thought when another couple of taps turned on, this time erupting in nothing but bubbles, foam and musky scents. The whole bathroom reminded him somewhat of the Prefects’ bathroom at Hogwarts, except this was a lot nicer as there was no Moaning Myrtle around to come peeking at him, nor the pressure of an egg he needed to figure out.

After being thoroughly soaked and wrinkled, he stepped out of the tub, looking around for something to dry himself with. However, as he did so, a nice and warm wind started blowing and before he knew it he was completely dry. Wondering about the mysterious magic at work, he spotted a bathrobe hanging on a peg against one of the walls. The fabric was as soft as anything he’d ever felt, and for a moment a tinge of jealousy took over as he realised that this was where Malfoy had grown up. Putting the thought away quickly, he tightened the robe around himself and prayed that he’d be able to find the room he’d woken up in earlier that morning, because he was in desperate need of something to wear.

*

Once fully dressed, Harry attempted to make his way downstairs, which proved to be a lot easier than finding a proper mirror or bathroom in the maze the Malfoys called a home. At least, that’s what he thought. Now that he didn’t seem to need one anymore, mirrors appeared everywhere around the many corridors and rooms. Relatively fed up with the place, he descended another one of the stone staircases found throughout the house, hoping he was somewhat closer to the entrance than when he’d started. He was planning on paying himself, or at least his body, a visit as fast as he could. Rummaging through Malfoy’s many possible outfits and hair products, he’d realised that if he had been put in Malfoy’s body, then Malfoy would’ve surely been put into his... something he would rather not think about.

As he turned another corner, he imagined it would probably be smart to get a hold of Ron, Hermione, Kingsley and the Order as fast as he could, and made a mental note to stop by either one of them on his way back from Grimmauld Place. He paused briefly as a soft and pleasant sounding chiming rang through the house, followed by a very heavy door opening and muffled voices. He must really be close to the entrance then, he thought, and was about to quicken his step when he heard the clearing of a throat.

‘Mr Malfoy is requested in the drawing room.’

A man, which Harry could only assume to be some sort of a wizarding butler, was standing in front of him, clad in deep grey robes with a white shirt, the collar popped up high and held together with a single, slim, black tie that disappeared back behind a silver clasp and into his robes.

Harry hesitated a moment before answering, uncertain what to say or what to do, the sudden realisation hitting him that Malfoy probably had some kind of etiquette with which he would treat his… servants? The word sounded odd to Harry’s own thoughts.

‘I…,’ he started before hesitating again. ‘I’ll be there shortly, thanks.’ The last word had escaped him before he had been able to stop himself.

The man raised and dropped his eyebrows so quickly, Harry was sure he’d imagined it.

‘Very well, then,’ the man said before giving a curt bow and moving back down the stairs he’d come up.

Having no idea where he could find the drawing room, Harry followed the man down until - at last - he found himself in what looked like the entrance hall. As he’d only been in the Manor once before, the odd feeling of déjà-vu that hit him once he had descended the last stone step was almost overwhelming. Shivering, he tried to shake off the wary feeling as he followed a set of voices into the nearest room.

The sight that welcomed him was something that made him want to turn around and walk back out as fast as he’d entered. There were two people waiting for him, both situated on one of the many pieces of furniture in the room. They were both very familiar to Harry, clad in full Auror robes, and completely expected to be present, as they were there upon Ministry procedure.

‘Ah, Mr Malfoy,’ the first one, an Auror named Zanna - a slim woman with a long neck and auburn hair cut in a short bob - said, ‘a true pleasure you could join us.’

The second one, a Hit-Wizard and Zanna’s assistant, smiled almost maniacally. Harry knew that both of them shared, like many of the Aurors and Hit-Wizards within the Ministry of Magic, a great dislike for the Malfoys. Especially because Narcissa Malfoy and Draco Malfoy still walked free, mostly because of him.

‘Why don’t you take a seat?’ Zanna offered. Realising he hadn’t moved since his eyes had fallen upon his colleagues, Harry moved to the sofa opposite the pair and, rather uncomfortably, sat down.

‘Very well,’ she continued and took a slim paper scroll out from the inside pocket of her robes. ‘As you might have guessed, we are here today concerning your father’s upcoming trial.’ She let the words linger in the air for a moment, her stare so piercing it felt as if she were waiting for a reaction.

‘Right,’ Harry said nervously and cleared his throat. ‘Would you err… like something to drink?’

Not entirely certain where exactly he’d be able to get said drinks, he rose, but Zanna interrupted him.

‘That won’t be necessary. We don’t intend to take long.’

Good, Harry thought, feeling slightly better. The less chance of suspicious behavior from Malfoy’s side, the better his chances at reaching Grimmauld Place.

Zanna slowly unrolled the scroll and cleared her throat. ‘A mutual decision has been reached between the Minister for Magic, in this case Minister Shacklebolt, and the Wizengamot, to move the trial of Lucius Abraxas Malfoy forward with… Mr Malfoy, are you sure you are all right?’

Zanna and Maurice, the Hit-Wizard, were both eying him curiously now. Harry however, didn’t seem to notice. A sudden realisation had hit him, and he was staring wide-eyed at the wall behind the two Ministry’s officials.

‘I’m not allowed to leave the house.’ His voice was almost inaudible, even to himself.

‘What was that?’ Zanna asked him.

Harry swallowed past the lump in his throat and forced his gaze away from the spot on the wall he’d been focusing upon.

‘I...’ he started, but stopped. What was he going to say? Malfoy knew he wasn’t allowed out, and he’d already broken the rules the day before. To only come to terms with his punishment now would not only be strange, but also very suspicious.

‘No, er...’ he said and quickly shook his head. ‘Sorry, I was… yeah. Please continue.’

Zanna gave him a single look over before slowly redirecting her concentration back to the scroll.

‘As I was saying,’ she continued, ‘the trial of Lucius Abraxas Malfoy will be moved forward roughly -’

Since he’d heard all of this before, having discussed it with Kingsley just yesterday, Harry let his thoughts roam for a moment. If he wasn’t allowed to leave the house, how was he supposed to reach Ron and Hermione, and more importantly even, how was he supposed to reach himself? He didn’t like to admit it, but the power Malfoy would have at the Ministry being Harry Potter… Harry refused to think about the possible consequences a vengeful Draco Malfoy set loose on the Ministry could bring.

When he heard the scroll being rolled back up, his attention snapped back to the conversation.

‘Now,’ Zanna spoke once more, ‘we would like another word with your mother.’

‘My mother?’ Harry croaked. The words sounded strange coming from him, and not only because they were being uttered in a voice not his own.

‘The one and only.’ Zanna now sounded almost sarcastic.

‘She is otherwise engaged at the moment.’ It had been the only thing Harry had been able to think of to say. Where exactly was Malfoy’s mother? He’d hardly been able to find his own bedroom, never mind hers, or any other unknown or unexplored room at that.

Maurice grunted as Zanna raised her eyebrows so disbelievingly it would’ve made Malfoy himself jealous.

‘Otherwise engaged?’ she repeated cynically.

‘Yes,’ and thinking quickly, he added, ‘but thank you for stopping by, it was most enlightening.’ Showing what he hoped would be one of Malfoy’s more charming smiles, he got up, a not so subtle hint that the conversation was now over.

Not being used to this kind of treatment, Zanna’s nostrils flared dangerously, and for a moment Harry thought he saw her wand hand twitch in anticipation. Harry had heard before that even during her Auror training, Zanna had had problems controlling her temper, and he wondered if this was the moment he’d actually witness it first hand.

As no wand was drawn, though, Harry released a shaky breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, feeling the tension hang in the air.

‘Very well,’ she said as she got up, Maurice following her movement.

She made her way across the room towards the door but stopped before exiting, looking back over her shoulder.

‘I’d like you to know, however, Mr Malfoy,’ she said, nearly spitting out the name this time, ‘that you disobeyed restriction 11B of the disciplinary conditions the Wizengamot have set you.’ She paused. ‘Next time we’re getting notified of your disobedience, don’t expect us to be so… tolerable.’ And with that she turned away a final time and stalked out of the room.

*

After having paced the room for roughly an hour after his two colleagues had departed, Harry decided he would leave the Manor and pay a visit to his own body one way or another. He just had to figure out how to do it. If only there were a way he could reach Kingsley and explain the situation…

Of course! he thought after another moment. Something had just dawned on him. The way the wards worked was through constant detection of the magic of the two of them; his and Mrs Malfoy’s. If he could just make sure his magic was still present at the Manor while he was gone…

He stopped mid-pace. But if he had, as Zanna had put it, disobeyed restriction 11B then why hadn’t they come running after Malfoy the moment they’d noticed him Apparate away from the Manor in search for Harry?

‘They didn’t notice.’

‘What didn’t they notice, dear?’ the big portrait above the mantelpiece asked him. Harry looked up and saw he was staring straight into the grey eyes of what must be a female member of Lucius’ side of the family. Her skin was pale and her eyes and hair so light they looked almost like a mixture between liquid silver and liquid gold. Her posture was straight and rigid as she was sitting in the portrait’s chair, her hands folded neatly in her lap, resting upon a very heavy, old and expensive-looking olive-coloured dress. He gave her an awkward smile as she pursed her lips at him, apparently not appreciating being ignored.

Harry had no time to think about that now, though. Zanna had been bluffing, or so he hoped, and as long as the Ministry wouldn’t get an alert of anybody walking through the wards or Disapparating within the house… and surely, with so many house-elves around...

He looked quickly around the room. There, on the table, were two round glasses and a bottle of amber coloured liquid. Those won’t do, he thought almost absentmindedly as he started rummaging through an almost antique-looking cabinet. He extracted a book at random, pointed his wand at it and prayed to anybody who might be willing to listen that he wouldn’t mess up the spell.

*

He’d been afraid for a moment he wouldn’t be able to see Grimmauld Place, being stuck in the body of Draco Malfoy, but once the weird sensation of using a Portkey had subsided and he’d raised his eyes to see the old and battered-down front door of the place, he let out a long and shaky breath. Picking up the book from the wet grass of the park across the street, he started walking, hoping that Malfoy and his body were still safely at home.

He needn’t have worried. The moment he approached the door, it opened, and a very familiar arm shot out and roughly dragged him inside.

As he was slammed against the wall, he noted the deep black circles under his own eyes and decided that - once this whole ordeal was figured out and over- he would definitely be needing to get more sleep from that moment on.

‘I don’t know what it is you did,’ Draco spat at him in an angry hiss, ‘but you better undo it right this instant!’ He was breathing heavily, some spit escaping his mouth with each ragged exhalation.

Harry threw a nervous glance at the luckily still-covered portrait of Mrs Black on the wall. ‘What I did?!’ he whispered. ‘I didn’t do anything, you dimwitted prat.’ But before he continued, he wrenched himself loose from Malfoy’s grip and stalked passed the portrait and into the kitchen, closing the door behind them when Malfoy had followed him inside.

Both men stood there for a while, angrily staring at each other and at themselves. In the end it was Harry who broke the silence. ‘So that’s what you’re trying to do, then, blame it on me so you’ll look all innocent? Well I’m not buying any of it, Malfoy.’

‘Very funny,’ Malfoy retorted and sneered, something that just didn’t seem as effective as it would’ve been on his own face.

‘Funny? Hardly,’ Harry said. ‘You do realise you were seen yesterday, right? Zanna… Two officials from the Ministry came by your house earlier today to tell me that if they noticed me out of the house again, I’d be in serious trouble.’

He had to admit that it hadn’t been exactly what Zanna had said, but being “less tolerable” couldn’t be anything good either. And wouldn’t it just be perfect for Malfoy to have him locked away…

‘It seems you have as much respect for the rules as you had in school, then,’ said Malfoy. ‘One would think the Saviour of the wizarding world,’ the words were spoken with as much disdain as he had ever heard anybody else say them, and that included Snape, ‘would be a little more… careful. What would the public think if they found out about this, for example?’

Harry nearly growled. How could he have ever felt even remotely sorry for the blond git? ‘Is that a threat, Malfoy?’

‘It might just well be,’ Malfoy said, eyes twinkling dangerously.

Harry whipped out his wand so fast that Malfoy took a few steps back in surprise. ‘As it happens,’ Harry said, anger rising in his chest, ‘I don’t take lightly to threats.’ He paused, considering the many spells he could possibly use on Malfoy to make him talk.

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ Malfoy said. His voice croaked a little but the determination in his eyes was visible. When Harry saw Malfoy’s wand hand twitch, he raised his own just a little higher, pointing it straight at the spot between Malfoy’s… or well, his own eyes.

‘And why not?’ Harry wanted to know, trying to sound threatening but, still unused to the voice and the accent, not sure if he’d completely managed to pull it off.

Malfoy exhaled sharply. ‘I might just make a little trip to the Ministry, then,’ he said. ‘See what power lies in the hands of the famous Harry Potter. What would Kingsley think if I issued the release of my father, for example?’

‘You wouldn’t...’ The wand Harry was still pointing firmly at Malfoy’s eyes faltered slightly.

‘Oh, I would,’ Malfoy assured him. An almost mad grin appeared on his face, something that did not suit him at all, Harry thought.

‘You know that would be suspicious. I’d never do anything like it,’ Harry said, ‘and if I tell Kingsley what’s happened...’

‘That’s what I thought, too, initially, when I woke up and saw your face instead of mine in one of the mirrors of this godforsaken place, but now that I think about it… would they really dare question the almighty opinion of the Saviour?’ Malfoy took a step forward, until the wand pointed at him nearly touched his forehead. ‘After all, my mother and I are still walking free, even though I’m sure most of the Ministry would like to see us locked up as fast and as far away as possible.’

‘Well, then, I think it is time for me to have a little chat with your mum, don’t you think?’

Instantly the grin that had previously contorted Malfoy’s face so unpleasantly disappeared. ‘Don’t you dare,’ he whispered.

‘Why’s that?’ Harry asked, knowing he’d hit a sore spot and intending on abusing it as much as he could. He wanted a reaction from Malfoy, he wanted him to talk, to spill what he’d done to them. And if this was the way to do it... ‘Not so keen on having me talk to your dear mother?’ It was his time to grin now, but unlike Malfoy’s almost mad one, his was more of a smirk.

‘Don’t you dare involve her in this, Potter!’ Malfoy spat at him, nostrils flared. He summoned his wand from beneath the robes he was wearing and pointed it back at Harry.

‘Try me,’ Harry said, smirk still firmly in place.

‘Get out.’ Once more, Malfoy’s voice returned to a mere whisper, but instead of angry he looked oddly emotionless, like the calm before the storm.

‘You can’t throw me out of my own house, you -’

‘I said, GET OUT!’

The blast was so strong Harry was thrown backwards through the kitchen, hallway and front door where he rolled off the stone steps and into the street. Groaning, he looked up to see a very white-faced Harry Potter stare back at him from the doorframe, wide-eyed and wand at his side, before he turned back around and slammed the door shut with a hard blow, muting the sounds of an absolutely enraged Mrs Black.

Still on all fours, Harry let his head hang for a second before trying to get up. Another groan escaped him as a nasty stinging in his side almost made him fall over again. He had expected a lot of things, but not this. Where had Malfoy learned to blast people away like that, anyway?

Carefully getting up, he looked around himself. He blinked, and almost straight away, something strange happened. As his head turned, it felt as if he had once more stepped into a thick-feeling substance. His mind seemed to buzz at the same speed it always had, but his body refused to move with him. When his eyes fell on a tree at the entrance of the park facing number twelve Grimmauld Place, he noticed the man standing there. Purple trousers and coat, white shirt tucked into it and the most polished, pointy shoes he’d ever seen. Slowly, the man raised the rim of his high top hat, just like he’d done last time, and, pursing his lips at Harry, waggled a single finger at him. Harry could almost hear the tutting sounds the man must be making.

He tried to open his mouth to say something, tried to move forward, even tried to raise his wand, but his body simply wouldn’t obey him. Feeling his eyelids slowly close again, he screamed in his mind, frustrated to boiling point.

Still in the middle of trying to move forward, he stumbled and nearly fell flat on his face when time seemed to speed back up again. Barely catching himself from hitting the ground, he stood up straight and looked around, straining to keep his eyes open. The man was gone.

*

So Malfoy was afraid he’d hurt his mother then, Harry thought as he slowly made his way back up one of the Manor’s bigger stairways. His first instinct after he’d encountered the man with the top hat a second time - Harry had no other name for him at the moment - was to go straight to Ron and Hermione, but he had decided against it. He could imagine very well what it would be like for him, having a Draco Malfoy on his doorstep who was trying to convince him he was Ron. He’d probably think it a sick joke and send him home with a nasty Stinging Hex or two. No, he would have to convince them - and Kingsley - of what had happened first before actually going to face them, and for that, he needed answers.

Encountering nobody on his way there, he was finally able to find the library of the Manor, having guessed correctly - and happily so - that a house like this, if you could call a house this size still a house, simply couldn’t not have a library.

By the looks of it, he was roughly on the second floor of the place, and probably nearer the East Wing than anywhere else. As he slowly walked through the small corridors, all surrounded by the many bookcases the library held, he took in the small fortune of books present. He wondered where to start. Hermione would’ve probably been able to give him at least one suggestion, but as he wasn’t able to reach her at the moment, he would have to do without her advice for now.

He figured, though, that of all the libraries in England, the Malfoy library was probably the one to find out more about this kind of rare - and possible even dark - magic. Yet something bothered him: Malfoy had honestly been aggravated by what had happened, almost as much as Harry was.

Turning around another bookcase, he encountered a large, dark wooden desk in the middle of something he couldn’t describe as anything else but a clearing. Books of every colour and size were stacked around it in a wide circle, making the desk and the chair behind it resemble some kind of librarian throne. On the right corner of the desk stood a lit oil lamp, emitting a soft but warm glow. As Harry approached it he noticed the many pieces of parchment lying over one another. He sat down and picked up a random one. Noticing it was mostly figures and numbers, he quickly put it back down again, deciding that it wasn’t going to make him any wiser, and picked up another one - finding only more figures. Another one - numbers. Yet another - again only rows and rows of what seemed like endless and senseless calculations. Was that what Malfoy did in his free time, then?

Harry tiredly rubbed his face. His side was still stinging from the hard blow he’d received earlier, his head still somewhat heavy from his encounter with the man in the top hat. Sighing, he began going through more of the papers, disregarding most of them and throwing them aside. Finally, he found an unwritten scratch of parchment. Opening up the main drawer of the desk, he extracted what looked like a very expensive Eagle feather and a bottle of ink. He opened it, dipped the feather inside and started writing.

The Man in the Top Hat

He thought for a moment before continuing, deciding his best course of action was to make a list of everything he knew for sure, but he came up with very little. Had time slowed down because of the strange man, or had Harry merely been tired? The first time, like both Ron and Hermione had insisted, he had felt sick, and the second time he’d been hit with a very strong hex, almost knocking him out cold. Surely… He shook his head and, figuring it wouldn’t do much harm, noted it down anyway.

Time slows down

The next thing to think about was what had happened between him and Malfoy. He wouldn’t like to think the two - or three - things were related, but in the wizarding world, Harry had learned, you should never assume otherwise. And so the body swap also made it to the list.

Observing his own handwriting, he sighed again. The man could wait, at least for now. The most important thing was the problem of the body swap, so that was what he was going to research. If he did - surprisingly so - encounter any texts or book about the mysterious man, he would be very happy, but until that time, he’d probably just try to forget about it. If he was really honest with himself, the man kind of gave him the chills. He got up, took another good look around to memorise where in the library he was, put the piece of parchment in the pocket of his trousers just in case, and set off in search of any books about cases in which the victims had exchanged their bodies.

With Curious Cases of Magic through the Ages, A History of Extraordinary Hexes and Spells and The Encyclopedia of Magic: From Accio to Wingardium Leviosa under his arm, he returned to the desk, cleared the last pieces of parchment off it, opened up the first book and started reading.

*

Harry awoke with a start. Not sure what had caused it, he raised his wand, lighting it with a quick flick. The oil lamp on the desk had long gone out, and since the sun had set what seemed like many hours ago, the library was completely dark. Reckoning it was probably around 2 or 3 am, he lifted his wand higher to light as much of the path in front of him as possible and set out to find Malfoy’s bedroom.

Again he walked through corridors, hallways and empty rooms, finding himself - more than once - in a spot he’d already been. When he finally managed to find the double doors leading into the unfamiliar chamber, the sun was once again up and shining.

Chapter 3: The Secrets of Draco Malfoy

[Fic] Blink (1/10)

lordes — Fri, 15 Aug 2014 10:04:13 GMT

Title: Blink
Recipient/Trope: Bodyswap for gatewaygirl
Username: lordes
Betas: lordhellebore, amorette
Pairings: Harry/Draco. Mentions of: Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione, Draco/Astoria, Draco/Blaise, Ginny/Oliver.
Characters: Harry, Draco, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, George, Arthur, Molly, Kingsley, Hawkes Hawlish, Auror Williamson, Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa Malfoy, Voldemort, Bellatrix, Nott, Avery, Gawain Robarts, original characters. Mentions of: Luna, Umbridge, Blaise, Oliver, Astoria.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Rating: R
Warnings: Suggestive M/M relationship, original characters, unexplainable magic, hurt.
Word Count: 46 000
This Chapter: 4622
Summary: When Harry is approached for a favour by Draco Malfoy at the Ministry of Magic, only in his wildest dreams can he imagine what will await him in the morning to come; and when a mysterious man in a top hat appears, Harry fears he might be losing his mind. With his friends by his side and a very troubled Minister, Harry is desperate to find a solution for his blond problem as fast as he can - only that might prove more difficult than he initially expects. As he slowly gets immersed in a life so unlike his own, Harry comes to realise not everything is as black and white as he thought it was, and that the bad guy might not be the bad guy after all.
Author’S Notes: Originally written for the HD TROPES Fic Exchange, 2014

BLINK ON AO3

*

’Now, Harry you must know all about Muggles, tell me, what exactly is the function of a rubber duck?’ - Arthur Weasley (CoS - Movie)

‘Don't blink. Don't even blink. Blink and you're dead. They are fast. Faster than you can believe. Don't turn your back, don't look away, and don’t blink.’ - The Doctor

- CHAPTER 1 -
Mysteries and Top Hats

Harry Potter was walking steadily through the crowded Atrium of the Ministry of Magic, and he was not going to turn around. There were people bumping into him, staring at him and sometimes even pointing at him. As that was nothing he hadn’t got used to by now, he was able to ignore these people. The voice calling out his name at the moment, though, he could not ignore.

'Potter!' it repeated, and however much Harry wanted to pretend he wasn’t hearing it, he couldn’t. The was no chance he hadn’t heard it by now, nor the hasty and pertinent footsteps that just wouldn’t cease following him.

'What?!' Harry said finally, annoyed. He turned around to face the owner of the voice. 'What do you want, Malfoy?'

Draco Malfoy was standing right in front of Harry, all huge eyes and out of breath, his hair slightly sticking to the newly formed drops of sweat on his forehead.

'You can’t… you can’t do this,' Malfoy breathed, clutching his side.

Harry sighed once, deeply. 'I don’t have time for this,' he said and turned around to walk away, only to be stopped dead in his tracks by the words of a boy whom he might’ve hated more than Voldemort himself at one point in his life, yet whom he - time and time again - just couldn’t resist trying to help.

'She saved your life, Potter.'

Harry sighed again in irritation, pinching the bridge of his nose between index finger and thumb. He didn’t move though, not yet. The problem was, this didn’t sound like the boy he had hated so much, nor like the spoiled little ferret he had always thought Malfoy to be. This was a boy - a man - who was pleading. However, he was pleading for people who might be his parents, but who had done nothing but create and spread ruin and despair through the whole of the wizarding world for decades.

'She saved your life,' Malfoy repeated, calmer and softer this time, 'and this is how you’re going to repay her?'

Harry turned back to face him, still annoyed and now also slightly despairing. Why couldn’t he walk through the Ministry once without being accosted by one person or another?!

'She might’ve saved my life,' he answered, scowling, 'but she was and still is a Death Eater, just like your father. And I’m not planning on letting any of them, former or no, run free any longer.'

Malfoy’s eyes went wide, and for a moment Harry was certain he was about to start crying.

'Please.'

The word took Harry by surprise. He wasn’t sure if he had ever heard Malfoy utter anything like it, not even to a teacher.

'Don’t do this. Don’t take away the last thing I have left.' His voice sounded oddly broken. 'I know I’ve made mistakes Potter. I know. I did. But please don’t punish them for what I’ve done. I only did it to save their lives...'

'What you don’t seem to be getting, though,' Harry persisted, 'is that your parents made some serious mistakes all by themselves; they didn’t need your help for that.' A small cough made him turn to his left, and for the first time since their conversation had started, he looked around. They were starting to attract attention. People were looking at them, exchanging urgent whispers as they walked past or simply stopped to stare. One woman clad in a set of chestnut coloured robes - and the probable source of the cough - had even been so bold as to take out a notepad and quill. Harry wondered if she was a reporter or merely an overly curious bystander who thought she could earn some quick Galleons with a new and flashy story about what the ‘Saviour of the wizarding world’ was up to now.

Malfoy, in the meantime, had one of his hands roughly tangled in his hair and was biting his lip hard as if to suppress either a scream or some very nasty words.

'Right,' Harry continued uncomfortably, now very aware of the eyes and ears that were on them. 'If that’s all…'

Once more he tried to turn around and continue his way up to the Minister’s office. This time, however, it wasn’t Draco Malfoy’s words that stopped him.

'Let go of my arm, Malfoy.'

Harry glared and tried to pull free from Malfoy’s grasp. 'Get it back together,' Harry nearly hissed, 'and let. go. of. my. arm.'

'Just don’t leave.' Malfoy sounded desperate now.

Harry pulled him closer in an attempt to keep the conversation at least somewhat private, not really caring if it was working or not. He was tired and all he really wanted to do right now was go home. People already stared at him too much for his liking without Malfoy’s behavior to add to that, and it was starting to get on his nerves.

'Look, I don’t know what your problem is, but I have no time nor energy to waste on this, so I’d really appreciate it if you just let me go and finish my business here.'

'My problem?' Malfoy angrily whispered back at him. 'You know what the Dark Lord was like -' Harry huffed loudly at the fact that Malfoy still wouldn’t use Voldemort’s name, making Draco pause briefly. 'Even if my parents had tried to leave the moment they realised what kind of a madman... He was, they’d have ended up dead. All of us would have. And as far as I’m concerned, trying to stay alive during a war is not a crime.'

Harry’s nostrils flared at this. 'Just trying to stay alive? Your father was a man who craved nothing but power, corrupting and threatening everybody who had anything of worth to him. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.'

'Then charge him with that,' Malfoy answered, 'not for the murderer he is not.'

Harry shook his head, taking a definite step back, roughly pulling his arm free from the tight grasp. 'I’m sorry, Draco, but I can’t help you.'

'You know,' Draco said, looking rather forlorn in the middle of the huge Atrium, 'it’s not my fault you don’t know what it’s like to have a real family.'

Harry blinked, ready to step back towards Malfoy and punch him hard on the nose. Malfoy however, looked as if he’d turned into stone. Harry tried to turn his head to look around, but he felt as if he had fallen into a pool of very thick goo. His vision was clear, but everything seemed to appear… slower. Not only that, but not a mere ten feet away stood a gentleman, casually leaning against one of the huge pillars supporting the high ceiling of the Ministry’s entrance hall. He was wearing a big top hat, tipped so the shadow of it was covering his eyes and most of his face. A wicked grin showed underneath a somewhat slender but crooked nose. The man was tall, thin and pale. A black ponytail appeared to come out from under the hat, tied together by a single purple ribbon. Over all of this he was wearing an even darker purple overcoat and high purple trousers with a white shirt neatly tucked into them. Underneath these trousers were pointy shoes that shone so bright Harry wondered how much time it had taken the man to get them polished like that.

Harry couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the man, who slowly grabbed the rim of the hat, lifted it up, and gave Harry a single wink.

By the time Harry blinked, he man was gone, and everything seemed to be back at the same speed it had been at before. More curious even, nobody else seemed to have noticed anything out of the ordinary.

Harry blinked a couple more times, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes. The pillar the man had been leaning against was still there, but the only thing around it were the people rushing past it in a hurry. Had he been dreaming? Who had that man been?

'Potter? Potter!... Harry!'

Harry turned back towards him. The desperate look in Malfoy’s eyes had been replaced by a somewhat worried one, and from the tone of his voice Harry could only assume that he’d been out of the conversation for a while.

As he was about to ask Malfoy what he had said, however, he got hit by a wave of pure nausea and an unexplainable amount of nerves rushing through his body, making him feel vertigo and sweaty.

'I’m sorry,' he mumbled, and before Draco had had a chance to reply, he turned a final time and hastily walked away.

*

When Harry entered the new Minister’s office a couple of minutes later, the man in question shot up out of his chair the moment his eyes met Harry’s.

'Harry! You look like you’ve seen a Dementor, what’s wrong?' the deep voice said. Halfway through rounding the desk he had been sitting behind, Harry put up his hand in order to stop him.

'It’s fine, Kingsley,' Harry said, trying to swallow back the bile. 'I’m... fine.'

The Minister let out a soft sigh and raised a single eyebrow at him. 'If you’re sure…'

Harry gave him a small smile and sat down in one of the comfortable chairs facing the desk. The Minister’s office was bright, the large enchanted window on the far wall showing nothing but sunshine and blue sky. He took a deep breath. The man with the top hat would be something to investigate later, not something he was going to be worrying about now. 'Yes, I’m sure.'

Kingsley gave him one more stern look before sitting back down.

'Very well,' he said before picking up a stack of papers and tapping them twice hard on his desk to straighten the pile; then he laid it back down and handed the topmost file to Harry. 'As you can see the Malfoy case has been moved forward a few weeks, among several other cases per request of the Wizengamot.'

Harry nodded, immediately reminded of the rather unwanted conversation he had just had with Draco Malfoy.

Kingsley picked up his quill and quickly scribbled something on the identical file in front of him. 'The Aurors present during the investigation, interrogation and arrest of these…' Kingsley seemed to be struggling with the word, 'people,' he continued, 'are required to be present at the trial.'

Harry nodded again. It was nothing he didn’t know, so the information didn’t surprise him. Aurors were often called in as witnesses during trials, especially important ones like these.

'What are the prospects?' Harry asked, still studying the file intently. There were several familiar names on it Harry couldn’t wait to see safely locked up behind Azkaban bars. Some of them he’d personally made sure would probably never see the outside wizarding world again.

'Life sentence, probably,' Kingsley answered. 'With what they’re charged with, they’re lucky we no longer employ any Dementors.'

Harry nodded approvingly. No matter how much he was against the vile creatures or the punishment they brought, he sometimes wished - just for those rare few - that they were still around to do what they did best.

However, as he thought of them - their rotting breath and long black hoods underneath which that gaping hole was hidden - another wave of nausea hit him. He had to cover his mouth with both hands, letting the file drop onto the ground, and leaned forward - head first - in between his knees.

When he got his nausea under control, he carefully let go of his mouth one hand at a time and picked up the file from where it had fallen onto the ground. 'If you don’t mind,' Harry said, holding it up while slowly getting up himself, 'I’ll look these over at home.' He gave the small stack of papers a quick wave.

Kingsley merely nodded, once more straightening his own stack. 'As it so happens, I’ve had quite a long day myself,' he said, smiling. 'Go take some time for yourself, and I’ll see you in the morning.'

*

When Harry exited the Ministry of Magic, not having run into any more blonds on his way out, he took a deep breath. He scrunched his eyes closed as hard as he could and just stood there for a while, file still in one hand, listening to the bustling sounds of London around him. He felt much better already and therefore he decided that he’d pay a visit to Ron and Hermione, who he knew were currently having an after-work drink at the Leaky Cauldron.

'Heya, Harry!,' he heard the moment he entered the dimly lit pub. As he looked around, he saw Ron and Hermione in one of the few booths the Leaky Cauldron provided, both with half-full glasses in front of them. Ron was happily waving him over.

'Had a few, then?' Harry said, grinning widely. Ron had that typical ‘after-work’ smile on his face, and Hermione’s cheeks were already tinted with a soft pink.

'Mate,' Ron said as he sloppily swung his arm around Harry’s shoulders, 'you don’t even know.'

Harry felt better already. All the stress of the day, including the odd conversation with Malfoy and the weird waves of nausea, disappeared like Dementors in the face of a Patronus.

'It’s not so bad,' Hermione chimed in. She picked up her glass and took another sip of the amber-coloured liquid. 'Anyway,' she continued, 'I’ve got some rather exciting news!'

But before Hermione could start telling Harry what the exciting news was, Ron had already jumped in and had started telling his own story.

'Did you know,' he said as he patted Harry on the arm twice, his own still around Harry’s shoulders. Hermione raised a single eyebrow at Ron, who didn’t seem to notice, then gave a soft giggle into her glass before shaking her head. Harry grinned at his two best friends. He’d missed this. With him and Ron being Aurors now, and Hermione working part-time in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and taking part-time classes at Hogwarts, moments like these were rare.

'... just kept running too, as if he actually thought he would be able to escape six fully trained Aurors!'

'Who are we talking about?' Harry asked. He had realised this wasn’t one of the same couple of stories Ron seemed to repeat full-heartedly whenever he’d had too much to drink, but a new one.

Ron waved his hand dismissively. 'Someone called Pingwiggulus or something,' he said. 'I don’t really remember. Point is, though,' he pointed his finger at Hermione, so as to emphasise this fact, 'that we caught him.'

'What did he do, then?' Harry asked as he waved Tom over.

'Mister Potter,' the elderly man said as he reached the table, 'what can I get for you today?' But before Harry could answer him, Tom had already continued speaking. 'You know, we were just talking about you.' His voice turned softer, and Harry had to strain his ears to be able to understand him above all of the cheerful laughing and conversations around them. 'And about them caught Death Eaters.' His eyes twinkled hopefully.

Harry sighed. If there was one thing he disliked about his position as an Auror at all, it would have to be this. 'Tom,' he started, searching for the right words. However, Hermione seemed to have found them faster.

'We can’t discuss Ministry matters outside of work, Tom, we’re sorry.' She smiled kindly at him.

Tom’s face seemed to turn into stone, and for a moment Harry thought he’d be seeing the strange man with the top hat appear again at any moment. Time didn’t slow down this time though, nor did Tom. He took out his notepad and small quill and said, 'The usual, then?' before scribbling something down and shuffling away, back towards the bar.

'What’s got into him?' Ron asked, slightly taken aback.

'You can’t really blame him,' Hermione answered. 'It’s only been a few months, after all.' She didn’t need to elaborate on what had been only a few months. They all knew. 'And it’s not like the Daily Prophet is giving them much, either,' she continued, and when she saw Ron open his mouth, quickly added, 'Yes, they give them lists of captured Death Eaters, but what good does that do them? There are still plenty more at large than there are behind bars.'

They all fell into a rather mournful silence. Hermione was right, there were still a lot of Death Eaters out there, and even though most people had resumed their normal lives after Voldemort’s demise, the air of worry and danger still hung over the wizarding world like a thick layer of Dementor mist. Most people still did their shopping in groups, and the shops that were open in Diagon Alley opened late and closed early. Harry sighed and nodded a thank you to Tom when he came back, bringing Harry’s drink. Harry took a large swig from the heavy mug, the meade slowly warming his insides.

'As I was saying, though,' Hermione said, breaking the silence, 'I’ve got news.'

'Right!' Harry said, snapping out of his gloomy train of thought. He sat up a little straighter and looked over at Ron, who seemed to do his best to look everywhere but at Hermione, who didn’t seem to notice or else chose to ignore him.

'Remember the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare?' she asked hopefully. Ron groaned softly behind his glass and Harry quickly bit his tongue. Of course he remembered S.P.E.W. It had been Hermione’s almost full-time obsession during their later Hogwarts years.

'Well,' she continued, ignoring the obvious silence, 'the Department of Regulation and Control for Magical Creatures have been looking over the idea and they agreed it could very well be worthy of investment!'

'They don’t want to be set free, Hermione!' Ron butted in, sounding slightly exhausted.

'Well, maybe they’d at least like to be given the choice, Ronald,' she said coldly and turned back towards Harry. 'And the Department seemed very interested after all.' She raised her chin defiantly as if to dare Harry to disagree with her.

'That’s probably only because they got tired of your constant nagging,' Ron mumbled softly enough for Hermione not to hear. Harry bit his tongue to hold back his laugh.

'Anyway, Hermione,' Harry said finally, 'congratulations. It sounds fantastic!'

For a moment he worried that the enthusiasm in his voice might’ve sounded fake, but when Hermione smiled happily back at him, he pushed that feeling away, too.

She raised her glass. 'To S.P.E.W,' she said with a wink, making Harry grin. This was probably the first time he had heard Hermione use the formerly disliked abbreviation. He raised his own mug and gave Ron a small prod with his elbow, who in his turn also raised his glass. 'To S.P.E.W,' he repeated after Hermione, and for a moment he could swear he saw a small smile play on Ron’s lips.

*

After many hours of catching up, the topic once again returned to the Ministry of Magic and the upcoming trials.

'I forgot to tell you,' Harry said as he put aside another empty mug, 'I ran into Malfoy today. Or rather, he ran into me.'

'What, junior?!' Ron asked, sounding almost surprised. 'What was he doing inside the Ministry?'

'What was he doing out at all, is the question,' Hermione added. 'Wasn’t he supposed to be on Ministry orders to stay inside?' She looked from Harry to Ron and back.

Harry’s jaw dropped slightly - he hadn’t even thought of that - maybe that’s why Malfoy had appeared so scared and sweaty.

'It must’ve been really important to talk to you, then, risking what he did,' she said, more to herself than to them. 'What did he want?'

Harry rubbed his hands over his tired face before answering. 'I think he came asking me to clear his dad, or at least drop part of the charges.'

'You just think?' Ron asked.

'Well, yeah,' Harry said. 'I mean, that’s what he asked, but then something else really weird happened…'

As the Leaky Cauldron slowly emptied around them, Harry told them the story of the man with the top hat. By the time he’d finished, the only people still inside with them were an elderly couple in the corner, a rather large group of very loud men and women at the centre table, and a cloaked individual hastily scribbling on a piece of parchment in the far corner of the room, a smoking mug of unidentifiable liquid next to him.

Hermione hummed softly, obviously deep in thought.

'Maybe,' Ron offered, 'maybe you just imagined the time slowing down. You said you weren’t feeling well.'

'I didn’t start feeling unwell until after,' Harry said and looked expectantly at Hermione, who shook her head.

'Sorry,' she said, 'but I’ve got no idea. No book or scroll I’ve read ever mentioned anything like it. At least as far as I can remember.' She paused. 'And please don’t get angry, Harry, but maybe Ron’s right - you did say you weren’t feeling well…'

'That was after, I already told you!' Harry said, slowly getting annoyed. Why wouldn’t they believe him? It wasn’t as if he was telling them something completely illogical, right?

'You said you didn’t get hit with the nausea until after, that’s true,' she answered carefully, 'but maybe it was already building up?'

'Wait,' Ron interrupted abruptly, looking oddly pale in the yellowish light of the pub. 'You don’t think this is another sign of…' his voice dropped into a whisper, 'of You-Know-Who being back?' He looked at Harry with wide eyes.

'Yeah,' Harry stretched his back, took some Galleons out of his pocket and put them onto the table, getting up. 'You officially had too much to drink.'

'I did not!' Ron said, but he was swaying slightly as he got up himself, and giggled.

Hermione smiled at him before she yawned and stood as well. 'It’s getting late, I should probably get back myself.'

'Are you staying at Hogwarts tonight?' Harry asked as he pulled on his cloak.

Hermione nodded. 'I actually have some morning classes tomorrow. Arithmancy and History of Magic.'

'Sounds brilliant,' Ron said sarcastically, fumbling with his own cloak.

Hermione walked over to the other side of the table to help him out. She pulled one of the cloak’s sleeves back from its inside-out state. 'It’s not that bad. It’s mostly just weird, being in the same year as Luna now.'

'Well, I’m just saying I’m glad I’m working as an Auror now, that’s all,' Ron slurred.

Hermione ignored him, but continued to help him with his cloak before turning towards Harry. 'Where will you be staying tonight?'

He shrugged, not answering the question they both already knew the answer to. Right after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry had gone back to Grimmauld Place, initially just to stay there for a couple of nights to get his head back together while the wizarding world awoke from its Dark Magic-induced coma. However, instead of leaving the place again to stay at the Burrow - as Mrs Weasley had so often proposed - he’d stayed.

'Oh, Harry, why do you insist on going back to that place?' Hermione asked softly. 'You know you hate it, and the Order doesn’t need it anymore. Just sell it, get yourself a nice flat somewhere in London if that’s where you want to be… Or don’t,' she added as she heard him huff, assuming wrongly that he did so because he was thinking about his funds. 'You have enough gold to last you a lifetime, anyway.'

Ron, now fully dressed and in an attempt to lighten the conversation, added, 'And that’s why he’s paying for the drinks tonight, aren’t you Harry?' He smiled a somewhat lopsided grin, making Harry laugh quietly.

'Well, I really ought to get going,' Hermione said finally. She walked over and gave Harry a tight hug and a peck on the cheek. 'Take care,' she whispered before going back to Ron, whom she also gave a quick kiss, although on a different place. While Ron’s head turned as red as his hair, Hermione made her way over to the fireplace, grabbed some Floo powder, and disappeared into the green flames before Ron had even fully processed what had just happened.

*

When he got home, Harry took another good look around himself. The house really was dreary. He hadn’t bothered doing anything about the now peeling wallpaper, the still stuck and covered portrait of Mrs Black, nor had he bothered to ask Kreacher, who usually kept himself busy enough with the cooking and basic cleaning.

Halfway up the stairs and in a heated battle with his too tightly done tie, he realised how fed up he really was with the day. He was annoyed, and not just a little bit. Annoyed at Malfoy for attracting attention to him again today, annoyed that tomorrow there was bound to be something about it in the Prophet, annoyed that he didn’t understand who that man in the top hat had been, annoyed because he actually let it bug him, and annoyed that Hermione simply wouldn’t give his living at Grimmauld Place a rest. Remembering his reaction at the beginning of his sixth year, when Dumbledore had announced that Grimmauld Place was to be his, he stopped, already halfway up the stairs. He hadn’t wanted the house back then. Hell, he would’ve given anything not to have to return to this place. But now… He sighed and let his back - careful enough not to wake Mrs Black - fall back against the wall. Now it seemed like an almost hurtful reminder of all the people he’d lost; Sirius, Remus and Tonks, Dumbledore, and even Snape’s ghost seemed to reside here.

Giving up on the tie, he took out his wand, pointed it at the blasted thing and, by giving it a quick swish, had the tie severed in his hand within seconds. As he continued his way up, he dropped it and started working on his shirt next. By the time he’d reached the topmost step and had entered his bedroom, the stairs were littered with pieces of clothing.

Still half-dressed, he let himself slump on the bed, falling asleep immediately.

Chapter 2: An Unwelcome Awakening

[Photography] - Good Morning

lordes — Tue, 10 Jun 2014 13:15:35 GMT

[Photography] - Green Eyes

lordes — Mon, 09 Jun 2014 19:50:53 GMT

Tumblr

lordes — Sun, 08 Jun 2014 20:38:28 GMT

Thanks to alisanne, I had to make a Tumblr account as well...

You can find me here: lordes310.

I still have no idea how it works, but I'm sure I'll figure it out someday!

Things

lordes — Tue, 20 May 2014 16:57:29 GMT

How shiny is livejournal now? I love it!

So, stuff has happened. I've been in an accident during a storm, have stressed, slept and even switched psychologists. Yes, stuff has happened indeed.

I was asked to pinch hit! I love to be asked to pinch hit! It's not good for me though; next to the fact that I'm busy with my at least 100k fic I hardly have time to start another project, especially not this particular one which will, and I can already feel it growing in my head as I type, end up to be at least 20k.

And then she asked me if I could do a minimum of 3k... Ha

Shadows and Secrets

lordes — Mon, 28 Apr 2014 20:59:29 GMT

I wrote 420 words tonight. It doesn't seem like much, but I've written part of the first and the second chapter of my Harry Bang fic and I'm very proud.

Today was a very relaxing day. I finished Charlie and the Chocolate factory (the book) today for my Literarture class. I will have to watch the movie tomorrow and then answer a question list about the two, or a comparison, or something.

I also read, knitted (I'm still working on my 11 by 11 squares blanket) my 5th square and am now moving on to another colour of which I'll also do 5. I told myself to do one square a day and so far I've been managing.

Then I read some Harry Potter (I restarted the book serie) and watched the last of the Lord of the Rings trilogy (which I also restarted).

Finally I caught up a bit with livejournal and hung with one of my housemates.

I almost forgot how nice it felt to do absolutely nothing!

The question that came up while writing today:
Where/what or on whom do you base your IC Draco while writing? How do you do this? What do you think of? What are your tips, tricks and moves?

What is this 'sun'-thing you speak of?

lordes — Sun, 27 Apr 2014 20:13:31 GMT

As I'm slowly crawling out of my place of books and exams I realise it's been nearly a month. A month. This midterm period was horrible! It never takes them a month to get us to complete everything, but apparently they figured we had no life and no friends and absolutely no need for relaxation and... you know... breathing.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO EVERYBODY WHO HAD THEIR BIRTHDAY LAST MONTH!

I'll have a week of holidays now before school starts again. I NEED IT. Sleep all day, give nothing back!

Right, and sunlight. I've never been so pale in my life.

FREEDOM!

Banger

lordes — Sat, 22 Mar 2014 20:29:18 GMT

I'm going to be a serious Bang-er tonight and write! I'll be in the HarryBang writers Chatzy in an hour or so (10:30 pm Timezone +1). Anybody free to join me?

♥

[Fic] Cold Case 2/2

lordes — Tue, 18 Feb 2014 11:45:59 GMT

Title: Cold Case PART 1
Author: lordes
Recipient: winterdaffodils
Pairing: Harry Potter/ Draco Malfoy
Wordcount: ~16k
Warnings: Uses of the Cruciatus Curse, heavy emotions
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, his world nor his husband belong to me.
Summary: Five years after the war, Kingsley Shacklebolt has been replaced as Minister for Magic by Minister Cyneric, who is set on re-opening every single closed Death Eater case. Unfortunately, Draco's name is amongst them, assessed with the highest danger rating possible. Not able to live with the sentence given to him, Draco will have to find a way out of the mess the Minister has created for him and Harry…alive.
AO3: COLD CASE
Author's notes: First and foremost, thank you 'T' for the extreme thorough beta and 'S' and 'S' for all the help! Without any of you this would not have been possible. Also thanks to the Mod for her everlasting patience and smarts.
Dear winterdaffodils, I had so much fun writing this, even when neither Harry nor Draco wanted to work with me. I hope you'll like it!

This piece was originally written for hpholiday's Christmas fest and originally posted HERE.

Closing Godwin’s letter for the hundredth time, Harry wonders about the big news the man had for them, and what happened to him. He decides to send Godwin’s office a letter, and leaves to find Layla, Draco’s owl.

*

"Can we go shopping today?" Draco asks as he comes into the kitchen. He grabs Harry’s cup of tea from the table and sits down, sipping. "Perfect temperature," he says as he sees Harry’s raised eyebrows.

Swallowing his food, Harry grabs his teacup back from him. "You seem happy," he says after emptying the cup.

"I had a good night’s rest," Draco says. "Plus, it’s about time Pip gets some new dresses, don’t you think?"

Harry smiles at him. It’s good to see some of the old Draco shine back through. "Want something to eat first? Pip’s made plenty."

Draco gives the food on the table a once over before swallowing audibly and shaking his head.

Scowling, Harry wants to say something, ask if he’s okay, but decides against it. If it were him losing his magic, he’d probably lose his appetite as well.

The first thing he notices as they Apparate to Diagon Alley are the carols. There are groups of singing people moving around and about everywhere. Some are standing still on corners, enchanted snow eternally falling on to their heads, covering them in a white coat. There are bells, too, and every kind of Christmas decoration one could possibly think of. Not one shop has gone undecorated, making Harry grin widely.

Seeing Draco roll his eyes at him he throws an arm around his shoulders. "Oh come on, it’s Christmas!" Harry says happily as he starts dragging Draco deeper into the street. "Where did you want to go first?"

Several shops and plenty of spent Galleons later Harry and Draco make their way over to their last destination, Eeylops Owl Emporium, when a broad shouldered man steps in between them and the door. Harry, walking in front of Draco, nearly bumps into him and splutters, "Excuse me, we were trying to get in."

The man huffs once, giving off the feeling of a large horse, and crosses his arms, staring at Draco. Harry, who missed Draco stare in shock at the windowsill of the shop, protests, but the man simply points at the posters of the ‘newly convicted’ Death Eaters who aren’t welcome in the shop. Harry recognises Nott, Macnair and Yaxley. His nostrils flare when he sees the picture of Draco at the bottom, looking up at the snarling faces of the others as if he can’t remember why he’s there.

Harry whips out his wand and turns back to the large man, who pales and backs up a step or two, but he is stopped by Draco’s hand on his arm when he wants to raise it further. "Leave it," he hears him whisper. "Just.. let’s go home." A pause. "Please."

Harry shoots the man a last nasty look before turning, engulfing Draco in a tight hug and Apparating them back home.

Upon arrival Draco immediately turns and stalks into the library, closing the door and locking it behind him. Harry, calling out for him, goes ignored and after a good ten minutes of knocking and pleading, he gives up. Preferably, he’d blast the door in with his wand, but given the current circumstances, he figures that would only make things worse than they already are.

*

By the time the big clock in the sitting room strikes nine, Harry’s had enough. He had called out for Draco when he’d made dinner, and had been ignored. He’d then made tea and had got no answer, either. He understands that it’s been a rough day for Draco, but sitting and moping around won’t do anybody any good and quite frankly, it’s making Harry feel terribly helpless himself.

As he walks up to the library’s double doors he takes out his wand. "Draco, open these doors or I’ll open them for you," he calls out and waits. After several minutes have passed he raises his wand at one of the doors, getting ready for a blast, not patient enough for a calm Alohomora spell. "Draco…" he warns and, when he gets no answer, swishes his wand once and blasts the doors in.

He gasps and screams as his vision clears - Draco is lying in the middle of the room on the ground - unconscious.

"Draco!" he yells as he rushes towards him. Draco is shaking all over and, as Harry sees when he casts a couple of basic healing spells, appears to be running a dangerously high fever. Wasting no time Harry raises his wand once more and casts a Patronus Charm for Healer August, telling him to Apparate to their house as soon as possible.

Just as Harry opens the wards on the house the Healer appears, immediately falling onto his knees next to Draco. As Harry tells August everything that happened that day, he watches the man run some basic tests, his scowl deepening every time he casts another charm or spell.

"We have no time to lose," August finally says as he lifts Draco onto the stretcher he summoned. "Meet me at St Mungo’s," he instructs before quickly Disapparating.

Harry stands there for a while before following the Healer. Shocked, lost and shaking, guilt eating away at him. He should’ve known Draco wouldn’t ignore him without reason! Angrily raking his hands through his hair, he pulls at it and cries out in despair.

St Mungo’s is bustling with people as Harry makes his way over to the counter. Under many a protest he skips the line and quickly asks for the room Draco has been brought to. The witch behind the counter, probably not older than 30, responds shocked. Doubt visible in her eyes whether to send him back to the end of the line or to help Harry Potter, she decides on the latter and gives him Draco’s room number and floor.

Rushing into the room he sees several Healers and Mediwizards feverishly chant and work around Draco. As Harry tries to step closer to him one of the Mediwizards breaks free of the group and escorts him back out.

"There’s nothing you can do for him now, Mister Potter," the man says. "We are doing our best." He lets his hand rest on Harry’s shoulder for a moment before turning and going back into the room, closing the door behind him again.

Harry feels like a broken man. Never has he felt so powerless, not even when Voldemort had taken control of the Wizarding World. At least then he knew what to do, what was expected of him. Having already sat in every position he remembers ever sitting in, he has now taken to feverishly pacing the waiting room. Whenever a Healer or any other medical staff pass through the room he’ll look up, hoping they have news, hoping that everything will be okay with Draco, but it’s never for him. Not even sparing him as much as a second glance, they’ll come in, call out for the the person they need, and leave again.

When he’s finally able to get a hold of one of the Mediwizards running around the place, he asks if he’s allowed to use the Floo network and when he gets permission, he Floos Ron and Hermione.

"Oh Harry," Hermione says when they see him. She walks up to him and hugs him tight.

"Mate," Ron says quietly, face as sickly pale as Harry feels.

"What happened?" Hermione asks. "Was it the spell?"

Harry shrugs and swallows, trying to fight back the tears, and takes a deep breath. He shakes his head a couple of times and fixes his gaze firmly on the opposite wall of the room. "I’m not sure," he manages to choke out. "One moment we’re in Diagon Alley buying Christmas presents, and the next he is lying on the library floor. Just..." Harry looks up, blinking away the tears.

"What about Godwin?" Hermione asks then, sitting him down. "Heard anything from him yet?"

Harry shakes his head. "Nothing. Sent a letter to the bureau he works for, but they haven’t sent Layla back yet."

Hermione scowls and gets up. "I’ll be right back," she says before disappearing around the corner.

"Still haven’t got used to that," Ron says as a way to cheer him up. "Always bouncing around, that one, and never bothers to tell me what’s going on in that head of hers."

Harry smiles. It’s a wry smile, but at least his mate is trying. "Yeah," he says before staring at the wall again.

As they sit in silence an elderly Healer heads their way. His hair is grey, his eyes almost as green as Harry’s, his beard short but curly.

"Healer Midgea," the man introduces himself with a thick Scottish accent. "You must be Harry Potter."

Harry shakes the Healer’s hand and nods.

"Any news?" Ron asks as he shakes Healer Midgea’s hand in his turn. "Ron Weasley," he adds.

The man nods once. "Yes, if you’d come with me, please?" He turns, expecting Harry and Ron to follow him out.

Healer Midgea’s office is airy, with a sandy coloured wooden floor, one wall of the room only consisting of a big window looking out over a flowery garden.

"Mister Malfoy is showing signs of an addiction," Midgea says and holds up his hand when he sees Harry opening his mouth. "We’ve found the curse, Mister Potter, and yes, we know it is the cause."

Harry closes his mouth again, nodding.

"We think Mister Malfoy’s body is responding badly to the sudden absence of his magic," the Healer says. "And we were wondering if your husband has shown earlier signs of withdrawal?"

Harry has to think for a moment, but soon enough remembers Draco’s hands. "His hands were shaking, yesterday afternoon, but I didn’t-"

"And you couldn’t have," the Healer interrupts. "Not even we knew this could happen, however, now that we’ve seen it, it does seem rather logical, and," he adds when he sees Harry wanting to interrupt him, "we are doing everything within our power to get Mister Malfoy walking again."

"So, what now?" Ron asks.

"Well, we’ve put him in a Magic-Induced Coma, or a MIC, as we usually call it." When Healer Midgea sees the confused looks of the men he continues, "It is a coma in which we give the patient’s body bursts of magic every couple of hours to keep it stable. The curse the Ministry has put on your husband, Mister Potter, will suck that magic up as it did with his, but for now it’ll make him survive."

"Barely," Harry says softly before sighing. "Thank you," he adds. "For everything."

"It is our job to save lives, Mister Potter." Midgea smiles. "But you are very, very welcome."

*

"I want to do it," Harry says the moment he enters Healer Midgea’s office the next morning. "Emanuel," Harry says and nods in recognition as he sees the darker man sit across from Midgea.

The Healer doesn’t speak and shuffles around in his papers before looking up at Harry. "Once Mister Malfoy’s body has got used to a certain person’s magic, there’s no other to do it but them," he says. "It is a very taxing procedure, Mister Potter, one that will not be easy on your body or your own magical abilities."

Harry looks at the man and takes a deep breath. "Show me how."

"Very well," Midgea says as he gets up. "Follow me, then."

*

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Harry enters Draco’s room. It’s dark, save for the two lone candles on Draco’s bedside table. Harry walks over to his husband and carefully lays a hand on his arm.

"And it doesn’t matter where I touch or what I hold?" he asks Midgea.

The Healer shakes his head. "Not in the least. However, I would stay away from the neck area, for now."

Harry nods and licks his lips slowly, thinking. "You said the chances of his body accepting my magic are bigger," he says and looks the Healer in the eye. "But you didn’t tell me until I offered to be part of the procedure myself."

"Correct," Midgea answers as he puts away the chart he had been observing. "Like I warned you before, Mister Potter, this procedure is a serious one and often… often family or friends will feel compelled to help, without being ready to." He whips out his wand and casts a nonverbal spell over Draco.

"Just a status check," he says when he sees Harry eye him questioningly. "Now, let’s begin."

Harry moves his hand over to Draco’s gripping it tightly as he feels another burst of magic leave him and enter Draco. The sensation is odd, but welcome, because with every single burst, Draco’s breathing becomes just that bit steadier.

Harry looks at the clock and counts down the last two bursts. As he slowly untangles their fingers and puts a strand of hair back behind his husband’s ear, he hears a soft knock on the door.

"Hermione," he says as he looks up. "Come in."

She smiles at him. "You look better," she says as she hugs him. "Good to see."

Harry smiles back. "Knowing there’s something I can do for him makes it easier, I suppose," he says as he puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs his shoulders. "Found anything?"

"You better sit down," she says and shoots a worried look towards Draco. "Let’s go somewhere else."

Following Hermione’s gaze from Draco back to her, he nods and follows her out. They walk back into the waiting room he had spent hours in the other day. An uneasy feeling settles in his stomach, but he shakes it off and sits down in one of the chairs. Hermione sits down next to him, putting down her purse, and takes out a file containing several official looking forms.

"I went to the Attorney’s office Godwin works for," she says as she opens the file. "They say they’ve never even heard of a man with that name. Of course I didn’t believe them, so I went to the Ministry’s registration office for Attorneys, and there’s not a single mention of a Gregory Godwin in there either." She hands him the file. Shuffling through it and scanning the names, Harry sees she’s right. He blinks, not sure what to say, and nervously rakes a hand through his hair.

"And these are the names of all registered Attorneys in Britain over the past 50 years?" he asks, eyebrows raised, already knowing the answer but still wanting to make sure. After all, the documents in his hands clearly state the years.

Hermione nods. "And as Godwin was not even near 50, it is almost like he’s vanished." She scowls at a point behind Harry for a second and bites her lip. "Luckily," she continues, looking back at him, "I know a woman who might be willing to help us out. Her name is Victoria Ravensdale. She studied at the same university as I did."

Harry is slightly dumbfounded. "I guess… I mean… Thanks. thanks, Hermione," he says as he gets up. "I’m going to get some rest now if you don’t mind."

"I take it the treatment is going well then?" she asks, picking up her purse and putting the documents back in it.

Harry nods and rakes his hand through his hair again, making Hermione smile and try to pat it back down. "Yeah," he says, "but Healer Midgea was right. It’s tiring." He looks over and sees one of the fireplaces blaze green flames as another Healer walks out of it. "I think I’ll take the Floo network back home."

He looks over at Hermione. "If you come with I can give you what Godwin has found and shared with us so far."

"Good thinking," she says. "Still got that note he sent you?"

Harry nods. "Yeah, it’s… somewhere." He shakes his head tiredly and yawns. Waving his hand dismissively, he says: "I’ll find it when we get home."

"Thank you," Hermione says. "I’ll make sure to contact Victoria tonight.

*

"Mister Harry Potter, sir needs to wake up! Now, now!"

Harry groans and pushes the covers off himself. "What’s wrong, Pip?" he asks tiredly. Since he has to apply the bursts of magic to Draco every few hours, he’s been back and forth between St Mungo’s and his home several times already that day. Looking at the clock on his nightstand, he groans: three in the morning.

"There is being a very important person in the Floo for you, saying that Pip needs to be getting Mister Harry Potter right now, right now!" she squeaks, bouncing from one foot to the other nervously. "Pip is worried Mister Draco Malfoy is not okay, Mister Harry Potter. The Mister is looking like a Healer a lot, Pip thinks."

Harry’s eyes go wide as he stares at Pip. "A Healer?" he chokes out, grabs his dressing robe and sprints down the stairs. "Thank you Pip, you did well!" he manages to yell at her as he runs through the hallway into the library.

Falling on his knees in front of the fire, he recognises Healer Midgea. The man looks worried and at least a decade older than he did some hours ago. "Healer Midgea!" Harry demands, "Is everything okay with Draco?" Fear strikes him as the man doesn’t answer right away, making his stomach turn and his heart skip a beat or two.

"I’m afraid there are some complications," Midgea says. "It would be better if you come over right away."

Harry stands up and ties his robe quickly, before wanting to step into the flames, only to be stopped by Healer Midgea’s voice. "Bring your wand, Mister Potter," he says quietly before disappearing. "It might come in handy tonight."

Wand in hand, Harry rushes through the halls of the now almost empty ward and into Draco’s room, only to find none other than the Minister for Magic already waiting for him, accompanied by two rather intimidating Aurors.

"Ah, Mister Potter," the man says with an amused grin on his face. "I have some rather inconvenient news for you, I’m afraid." A fake frown of sadness crosses his face. "As it turns out, your husband can no longer stay at St Mungo’s."

"And why would that be, exactly?" Harry grits out between clenched teeth.

"Well, St Mungo’s and by extension its Healers," Cyneric gestures at Healer Midgea. who is wearing a grim expression and is staring straight into Harry’s eyes. "are off limits for any convicted felon with a danger rating above three-stars." The Minister raises his eyebrows now. "In Mister Malfoy’s case, there are five." The amused smile now returns. "I’m afraid he’ll have to leave the hospital, Mister Potter."

"I don’t think so," Harry says defiantly. "He’s staying right here, in this hospital, in this room."

Cyneric walks up to the door and puts a hand on his shoulder as he passes Harry for a brief moment. "If dear Draco isn’t gone by dawn he’ll be escorted to Azkaban," he whispers, eyes twinkling, tongue flicking out.

"He’ll die," Harry tries. "You can’t do this!"

"Oh, but I can," Cyneric says before patting Harry’s shoulder once and leaving, followed by his two Aurors.

"I’m afraid I can’t do anything," Midgea says as he sees Harry’s pleading look. He whips out his wand and ends the coma spell on Draco with a quick swish. "He should be fine without the forced sleep," he says as he looks at Harry. "And don’t forget the bursts of magic. Six every two hours." He pauses for a moment. "I’ll send an owl with my contact details at home, in case his condition deteriorates."

"Thank you," Harry says before grabbing Draco’s hand to Disapparate.

"Be careful, Harry," Midgea says right before they pop away.

*

"Four," Harry counts softly as he feels another burst leave his body. He Apparated Draco straight into their bedroom last night, making sure he was as comfortable as possible. Not daring to sleep without Draco being under the coma spell, he had stayed up all night, applying magic whenever Draco would stir or the shivers would worsen.

"Five," he whispers and swallows, trying not to lose consciousness. The spell is wearing him out slowly, but the memory of what happened fuels his anger enough for him to stay awake. He clenches his teeth during the last burst. "Six," he says and sighs, letting go of Draco’s hand and closing his eyes.

When the Floo in the downstairs library erupts, Harry hears tiny swift footfalls on the stairs. "I got it, Pip," he says as he pinches the bridge of his nose, scrunches his eyes shut and yawns loudly. "I got it," he repeats, more to himself than anybody else.

He gets up and stretches, making sure to check Draco’s temperature before he leaves the room. "Keep an eye on him, please," Harry says to Pip before he walks down. "And make sure to warn me if anything changes."

Pip nods, her eyes big and sad. She’s wearing one of Draco’s favorite dresses for her, a dark green one with silver linings and a big ribbon on her back. He always said it matched her eyes, which are big and silver, too.

As he enters the library he finds Hermione and a woman who he guesses must be Victoria already waiting for him.

"Harry!" Hermione says, startled. "By Merlin, you look paler than Voldemort!"

He hears Victoria choke at the mention of the name, but decides to ignore it and offers her his hand. "Harry Potter," he says. "I’m very grateful you’re willing to help."

Victoria purses her lips. She’s tall and slender with a somewhat pointy chin and sharp cheekbones. Her hair is almost as pale of a blond as Draco’s, but her eyes are a warm hazel. She shakes his hand. "Attorney Ravensdale," she says and Harry nods. "Officially, I am not allowed to offer help to any convicted felon with a rating above three-stars." She eyes Harry for a moment before continuing. "but let’s say this’ll be a personal project of mine, one I’ll do outside office hours… as a friend." She nods towards Hermione once. "And what I do in my private life has and will stay outside of the Ministry’s control." She smiles a small smile.

"However," she cautions, voice stern now, "lets keep this between us. Godwin’s fate needn’t be mine, I think."

Harry agrees and leads both Victoria and Hermione out of the library and into the kitchen. "I asked Pip to stay with Draco so I’ll go make us some tea," he says, but Hermione protests.

"You two start the case, I’ll go make some. Where do you keep your bags?"

Harry points towards one of the cupboards and sits down across from the attorney.

"It’s a peculiar case," she starts, softly shaking her head as she ruffles through the files she brought. "Very peculiar."

She grabs the envelope Godwin sent Harry and opens it again, unfolding the familiar note. "Especially this. Written hurriedly, sent by owl, no further contact…" Once again she purses her lips. "Do either of you have any idea what the evidence attorney Godwin mentions could be?"

Harry shakes his head. "Not a clue. And neither does Draco," he quickly adds when he sees her open her mouth.

Victoria nods and strokes the paper with her hand, lost in thought.

As Hermione puts down the steaming cups in front of them, she continues: "I take that it was Godwin who suggested the route of evidence?"

"It was," says Harry. "But both Draco and I agreed it was probably the best lead we have for now."

"Very well, then that’ll be where I’ll start," she says and collects her files. "I’ll keep these with me for now, if you don’t mind." When Harry shakes his head she puts them back in her purse and stands. "I’ll contact you as soon as I’ve found anything."

"Please," Harry answers.

"Be careful," Hermione says quietly before Victoria leaves, then turns back to Harry, feeling his forehead.

"I don’t have a fever, Hermione," Harry says as he ducks away from her hand. "I’ve just been working on Draco a bit more than the Healers told me to.

"A bit more?" Hermione asks skeptically and raises her eyebrows.

Harry tells her about last night. "Kicked him out?!" she responds, baffled. "But they can’t do that, can they?"

"Apparently, they can," Harry says as he sips his tea.

"I was wondering what you meant when you said you had Pip looking after him," Hermione says. "Is that why you’re so pale, then?"

Harry shrugs. "Just tired," he says and smiles before taking another sip.

"You know this could be dangerous, right?" Hermione says carefully, placing her hand on his arm and squeezing softly. "For you, for your own magic. What if you overdo it and cause something permanent?"

Harry looks up at Hermione. The worry is clearly visible in her eyes, but he knows she understands like nobody else would except perhaps Ron. "Hermione, it’s the only thing left I can do for him…"

*

Days go by. The snow melts, the rain starts and as the Christmas lights get put away, a new year begins. Victoria comes by every other day, checking on Draco and updating Harry and Hermione about her findings, ideas and thoughts on Godwin’s notes.

"I’ve found Godwin’s lead," she says. "Or so I think. I’m going to follow it and see where it takes me and what I’ll find."

Once again they are sitting in the kitchen, files and documents alike spread wide over the table, a second pot of tea already on the fire.

"I’m almost sorry for making you into a detective," Harry says. "But I’m happy I finally have some help."

"Are you kidding me?" Victoria says with a laugh. "This is kind of exciting." She winks at him. "Plus, a chance to personally work with the great Harry Potter is not one I’ll let slip by easily, of course."

"Oh, shut up." He smiles back at her and empties his cup. "Okay," he says as he pushes the cup away from the files. "What’s next?"

*

"Hey there," Harry says as Draco slowly blinks and opens his eyes. He grabs a strand of hair, moves it away from Draco’s forehead and plants a soft kiss on the damp skin.

Draco swallows once before slowly licking his lips, looking around the room in confusion.

"You’ve been out for a while," Harry says as he strokes Draco’s hair. "Found you lying on the floor of the library after our Christmas shopping." He smiles a small smile. "Scared the magic right out of me."

Draco nods before speaking in a raspy voice. "I thought…" He stops and thinks. "I think I dreamt I was at St Mungo’s." He tries to sit.

Harry helps him up and props a pillow behind his back. "You were in St Mungo’s. For a while at least," he says, avoiding Draco’s eyes as he fluffs the pillow beyond necessity.

Draco opens his mouth, then closes it, and opens it again before speaking. "Then why am I here? I still feel like I’ve been put under the Cruciatus Curse for an hour or two."

Harry bites his lip in thought before answering. "I thought it would be better for both of us if you stayed here," he says softly.

"Harry?" Draco asks, sounding insecure. "Why aren’t you looking at me?"

When Harry focusses on the wall instead of him, Draco continues: "They kicked me out, didn’t they? They kicked me out of St. Mungo’s just like they refused me entrance at the Owl Emporium." His voice is weak, but the despair in it evident enough to give Harry chills and make him cringe. Draco angrily wipes away at a tear. "It’s like the end of the war all over again."

"Draco, we will get through this."

"Easily said for you," Draco snaps. "You’re not the one without magic. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be unable to cast even the simplest spell? I’m nothing more than a cripple, a burden!"

Harry groans. "You know, it wouldn’t kill you to be positive for once! I’ve done everything I could to help you!"

"And that’s what exactly?" Draco asks. "Hold my hand while I sleep?"

"You’re unbelievable!" Harry stands up and raises his voice. "If that’s not enough for you, then what are you still doing here?!"

"We’re married, you insensitive arse!" Draco yells.

Harry throws his arms in the air and bites his tongue, stopping a snide remark from leaving his lips. "Forget it," he says. "I’m sleeping on the couch tonight."

*

When Harry wakes up that night he feels disoriented. Blinking, trying to make out his surroundings, he sees the edge of the couch appear, his pillow and blanket both hanging off it. He must’ve fallen off somehow. He arches his back and pops his shoulders, groans, turns and checks the clock. An immediate feeling of worry fills him and he’s on his feet before he knows it, but stops. Sod his sodding husband, he’s not going up there.

Defiantly walking into the kitchen, he flicks the fire on with his wand and hangs a teapot above it. As the flames lick at the pot Harry thinks of the argument he had with Draco earlier, sighs, Vanishes the fire and makes his way up into the bedroom.

The first thing he sees when he enters is Draco’s sleeping form shivering violently.

"Draco?" he asks as he rushes towards him. He lays a hand on Draco’s forehead and gasps. Remembering the time, he counts back; Draco should’ve had three more treatments already!

Cursing under his breath, he conjures a chair, sits down, grabs Draco’s hand and, while petting his husband’s hair, lets his magic flow.

*

The exhaustion from treating Draco is not enough to knock him out cold, so Harry decides to shower and get dressed, and by the time Victoria and Hermione come over that morning, a steaming pot of tea and fresh bread rolls are already waiting for them on the kitchen table.

"I found Godwin," Victoria announces when she enters the kitchen, laying her purse - which is once more filled with files in every size and colour - on one of the chairs before pouring herself a cup of tea and sitting down.

"Godwin?" Harry asks. "He’s alive, then?"

"Surprised me as much as you," Victoria says, glancing over at Harry once before focussing again on adding just the right amount of milk to her tea. "But yes, he’s at home."

Harry opens his mouth to say something but Hermione jumps in. "No use, his memory has been completely wiped. Poor guy doesn’t even remember his own name."

Harry curses softly and sits back in his chair, crossing his arms. "So nothing on the evidence thing, then?" he says.

"I don’t think it’s the evidence we should be looking at anymore," Victoria answers him. Her eyes sparkle and she gives him a smile that’s almost devious.

"What do you mean?" Harry scrunches his forehead. "Was there anything else we could have looked at?"

"Not concerning the case, no," Victoria says. "But maybe it’s not the case we should be investigating."

Harry, confused, looks from Victoria to Hermione and back before shaking his head and shrugging.

"The Minister," Hermione says when Harry doesn’t answer. "He’s been behaving rather odd lately and after doing some research," she pulls out a very old document from a leather bound file containing every single Minister for Magic name since the creation of the Ministry, "it turns out he doesn’t exist."

He stares at Hermione, slowly putting his bread roll back on his plate. "He doesn’t exist?"

"Or," Victoria says, hanging over the table, almost whispering, "he isn’t who he says he is." She grabs her purse and retrieves another set of documents from it. "These, I’m going to leave with you; there’s just one more thing I need to do to make absolutely sure." She throws her head back and empties her cup, then grabs one of the bread rolls and her purse. "I’ll meet up with you later," she says to Hermione.

Hermione, mouth full, holds her hand in front of her mouth and nods in confirmation.

After the fireplace has stopped roaring, Harry turns to Hermione. "He isn’t who he says he is?" he asks. "So he isn’t Minister for Magic?"

"No, no," Hermione answers, "he is. But the odd thing is that there isn’t a single file about him. According to the Ministry’s documents, the man hasn’t even been born!" She smiles widely, but when Harry shakes his head in confusion she starts to explain.

"The man has no relatives, no background, address, history or anything else. His name isn’t anywhere in the Birth Registry of the Ministry, nor in the Name-Change Registry - I checked," she says. "And the Ministry documents, everything."

Harry splutters. "We need to go to the Prophet with this!"

"Already working on it," says Hermione. "Or well, Victoria is, anyway." She lays her hand on his shoulder and smiles again. "Harry, do you know what this means? If the Minister turns out to be a fraud, Draco’s, or any case reopened under his reign will be annulled."

*

Checking the clock, Harry realises it’s about time to start another one of Draco’s treatments. Hoping the fever has gone down somewhat by now, he goes upstairs only to find the bedroom empty.

"Draco?" he calls out and wants to start searching when he realises that he knows exactly where he can find his husband.

"Same book?" he asks as he walks into the library. The room is warm, lit - probably by Pip - by several fires, candles and torches. The curtains are drawn, keeping the sunlight out and hiding the spell that is so ironically beautiful.

Draco nods and sighs. "Draco, listen," Harry starts, but Draco shakes his head. "Don’t. I was awake last night."

"Oh."

Nodding, Draco lets out another sigh. "I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have- "

"It’s okay," Harry says.

Draco nods again and looks away. "You are the only person in my life who can drive me absolutely insane."

"‘s probably why you’re with me, then," Harry says and smiles, earning a smile from Draco in return.

Sitting down across from Draco he grabs his hand and links their fingers, making their wedding rings touch. "I love you, you know that?"

"I love you, too, you big prat."

*

"Harry!" Hermione says as she answers the Floo. "What a happy surprise." Checking her watch, she adds, "I thought you and Victoria would be going over Draco’s case by now."

"She never arrived," Harry says. "Yesterday either. And after the whole Godwin thing…"

"Hmm." Hermione frowns. "With Attorney Godwin it was publicly known he was working on it, right? Whoever Obliviated him must’ve had something to do with it. But Victoria has kept it a secret, as far as I know."

Harry sees her turn away from the fire and ask Ron something. "Ron says he hasn’t heard from her either," she says as she turns back towards Harry. Seeing the worried look on Harry’s face, she adds: "No worries, I’m sure she’s fine, I’ll go check on her later today."

"Thank you, Hermione."

"How’s Draco doing?" she asks.

"He’s sleeping right now, but he’s doing better. The treatment really seems to do wonders for his well-being."

"I’m glad to hear that," she says. "And what about his mental well-being? And yours?" Now it’s Hermione’s turn to look worried. "How are you holding up?"

"Fine. I have to rest a lot, though," Harry says. "And Draco… well, we work with what we have."

"You will get through this Harry." Hermione sounds reassuring. "The both of you will." She smiles at him. It’s a kind smile and even though it’s a small gesture, it makes Harry feel a lot better.

"I’ll let you know when I’ve heard from Victoria," Hermione adds. "Contact me if she comes to you first, though."

"Of course."

Hermione ends the Floo connection and Harry goes upstairs. Draco is still sleeping and it’s not yet time for another treatment. Harry counts; another 45 minutes before the next one, that should be enough to get some quick groceries for tonight’s dinner.

He writes Draco a short note, puts it on the bedside table under a steaming cup of tea - protected by a warming charm - and leaves, all the while wondering where Victoria might be.

*

With two brown paper bags filled with food and drink of every kind and colour, Harry stumbles out of the library’s fireplace.

"Wand, wand, wand, wand," he mumbles as he tries to hold one of the bags up on his knee while clamping the other one between his arm and chin. "Damnit," he says, unable to reach into his backpocket. He sighs and decides that carrying them into the kitchen by hand will have to do for now. Carefully kicking at the double doors leading into the hallway, he calls out for Pip, but is met by a strangled cry instead.

"Harry!"

Without a second thought he drops the bags, whips out his wand and runs into the direction of the cry. As he turns and rushes into the sitting room, he is met with the too familiar eyes of none other than the Minister for Magic.

Harry stops dead in his tracks, stunned, confused and not sure what to do. Cyneric is holding Draco, wand firmly pressed against his throat and his arm twisted behind his back.

He lets his eyes dart from the Minister to Draco and back, raising his wand. "Minister Cyneric," he says, faked politeness in his voice. "Care to enlighten me as to what you are doing in my house?"

The Minister grins a big toothy grin, the grin of a madman, tongue darting out. Chuckling coldly, he says: "Don’t make this harder on yourself than necessary, Harry, and hand over your wand." His eyes sparkle and the grin gets wider. "Or your dear beloved ferret... dies."

The odd feeling of recognition overwhelms Harry and, shaking his head to shake off the unpleasantly confusing feeling, he takes a step back.

"The Minister isn’t who he says he is." The memory of the words rings in his ears. Daring to look up once more into the Minister’s eyes, he gags and falls over, giving the Minister just enough time to push Draco away and cast a curse at Harry, who is immediately disarmed and bound to the wall behind him.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, fighting the urge to throw up, willing himself to stay conscious.

"Overwhelming, isn’t it?" Cyneric says mockingly. "Oh, you’re not the first to respond like this." He pauses for a moment. "The magic, I must admit, is quite powerful indeed, and to the weak…" Taking a few steps closer to Harry, he lifts his chin. Harry opens his eyes and stares straight into the Minister’s, making his eyes roll back immediately and shivers run down his spine. "...it might be too much to handle."

Cyneric quickly spins around, robes and cloak billowing behind him, walking back towards Draco. Opening his eyes again, Harry focusses on him instead of the Minister, trying to clear his head, to think of something to do.

"If there is one thing I hate more than any other," Cyneric mutters, more to himself than to Harry, "it is a Death Eater who walked free." He sniffs angrily at Draco.

Harry’s eyes go wide as a particular familiar memory hits him.

"You’re a sharp boy, Potter," he said. His magical eye roved back to the Marauder’s Map. "Crouch could be thinking along those lines," he said slowly. "Very possible… there have been some funny rumours flying around lately - helped along by Rita Skeeter, of course. It’s making a lot of people nervous, I reckon." A grim smile twisted his lopsided mouth. "Oh, if there’s one thing I hate, it’s a Death Eater who walked free. …"

Harry gasps.

"I asked you," said Moody quietly, "whether he forgave the scum who never even went to look for him. Those treacherous cowards who wouldn’t even brave Azkaban for him. The faithless, worthless bits of filth who were brave enough to cavort in masks at the Quidditch World Cup, but fled at the sight of the Dark Mark when I fired it into the sky."

"You fired … What are you talking about … ?"

"I told you, Harry … I told you. If there’s one thing I hate more than any other, it’s a Death Eater who walked free. They turned their backs on my master when he needed them most. I expected him to punish them. I expected him to torture them. Tell me he hurt them, Harry. …" Moody’s face was suddenly lit with an insane smile. "Tell me he told them that I, I alone remained faithful … prepared to risk everything to deliver to him the one thing he wanted above all … you."

Harry shakes his head and stares at the man in front of him. He just didn’t see how this could be… the Minister. It made no sense, no sense at all.

"You!" he spits out, now actively struggling against the bonds holding him up against the wall. "You’re supposed to be dead."

The insane smile the Moody from his memory had worn twists the lips of the man in front of him. "Ah…" he says softly, eyebrows raised, "so you remember." Raising his wand, he points it at himself and swishes it past the length of his body. "I guess I won’t be needing these anymore, then."

The magical shine disappears as quickly as it came. In front of Harry is now Barty Crouch Jr., wand in hand, manical smile on his face, ready to kill them both. Harry swallows past the lump in his throat - and he is wandless.

"I have to admit I was rather disappointed," Crouch says as he flicks his wand in Draco’s direction, earning a high-pitched scream from him, "that you didn’t notice sooner."

"Leave him alone!" Harry yells through clenched teeth, kicking the air in front of him in an attempt to get free.

Barty only chuckles more. "Our hero." His tone is mocking. "Our precious little hero." He spits at Draco who clutches at his stomach and rolls over in pain, moaning.

"Haven’t you ever wondered, Harry?" Crouch says as his tongue flutters back out again, licking the corner of his mouth. "The re-opened cases, the conviction of Death Eaters, the nauseous feeling every time you left my office - you thought I hadn’t noticed? - the tinge of familiarity every single time you look into my eyes." He laughs a high cackle, pointing his wand at Draco and hitting him with the same unknown curse. Draco screams, clawing at the carpet.

Harry breathes out heavily, trying to keep his calm, not daring to take his eyes off the Minister. Who isn’t the Minister. Barty Crouch Jr. is dead, or as good as, in any case.

"They weren’t punished," he says softly, so softly Harry has trouble hearing him. "They just… walked away from him." He swallows, and for a moment Harry thinks he sees pain in the eyes of the madman in front of him.

"THEY TURNED THEIR BACKS ON HIM!" His lip trembling, Crouch raises his wand once more.

"NO!" Harry screams, but it is already too late.

"CRUCIO!"

The screaming fills Harry’s ears, blood rushing and heart pumping madly as he sees Draco writhing and shrieking on the floor. Hoping that somebody, anybody will hear them, he closes his eyes.

Crouch raises his wand, leaving Draco on the ground, gasping for air.

"It was the perfect punishment. Perfect, until you intervened!" He points his wand at Harry now, breathing heavily, nostrils flared. "Did you know, Harry," he says as the toothy grin returns on his face. He rakes a hand through his greasy hair to get it out of his eyes. "Did you know that the a wizards body needs magic to live?" Not waiting for an answer, he continues, circling the room but never taking his eyes off Harry. "Yes, it does. Ha! So… So without it, the body slowly shuts down." He waggles his eyebrows. "And nobody knew!" Another mad cackle fills the room.

"It was perfect," he whispers, spitting the words. "Because let’s face it, they deserve it. ALL OF THEM! To die like the Muggle scum they associate with now!"

Draco moans softly, curled up in a ball, arms wrapped tightly around himself.

"So let’s wait, Harry. Harry Potter. Hero… our dear dear hero." Crouch’s eyes roll back in his head for a moment before he looks back down at Draco, walks over to him and bends over his shivering body.

"Did he save you too, Draco? Sweet tiny little ferret of mine? Did he? Did he?"

"ANSWER ME!!!</i>" he yells at Draco when he doesn’t respond.

Moving his focus from Draco back to Harry, he pants. "The only thing I had to do was wait. Wait until they would all just drop dead." Gesturing his hand at nothing in particular, he moves around the room again, chuckling to himself and mumbling beneath his breath. Harry struggles against his bonds again, trying to get free, trying something, anything to prevent what would be happening otherwise.

"But then Godwin interfered," Crouch continues and for a moment, Harry falls still. Godwin!. "And I had to stop him, of course." Crouch turns back, facing Harry. "He didn’t deserve what he got. The good Pureblood that he is. Poor fellow. Yes… yes, poor lad."

He sniffs and stares at an invisible spot on the wall. "And then she came. Together with that filthy Mudblood." Spit flies out of his mouth as he says the word.

Fear strikes Harry. Victoria! Hermione!

"What did you do to them?!" he wheezes, out of breath because of his struggling, still weak from Draco’s earlier treatment. "WHAT DID YOU DO TO HERMIONE!"

"Well, we had to take care of her, of course," Crouch says calmly, still staring at that particular spot on the wall. Harry cranes his neck to see what the man sees, but is unable to spot anything.

"She couldn’t find out." His words are barely audible. "Nobody could. It would all fail if she had."

Swirling around unexpectedly, he raises his wand. "CRUCIO!" he screams at Draco, whose body spasms on the ground.

"STOP IT!" Harry yells at the top of his lungs. "Please!"

Barty laughs. "And why would I do that, Harry, my dear boy?" Contrary to his words, he does release the curse on Draco, who coughs, moans and loses consciousness, and turns towards Harry. "Your sweet little Mudblood friend is dead, Draco is soon going to be dead and then…" He spreads his arms. "Then, Harry Potter, you’ll die, too." His tongue flicks out. "The final revenge for my master."

Harry is seeing red. He pulls his arms away from the bonds, breaking the spell, falls to his knees. Looking up, he sees the man’s eyes go wide, and as he stands up and takes his first step towards him, Crouch aims his wand at Draco’s limp form.

"One more step and the ferret dies."

Harry stands still, calculating his next move.

"Back off, Potter," Crouch spits, voice raw, eyes wide in fear.

Seeing a familiar bush of hair move in the corner of his eye, Harry stays put. Relief washes over him, but knowing it is not yet over, he summons his wand, still.

"I don’t think so," Crouch says before starting: "AVADA -"

"KEDAVRA!!!"

*

As the Aurors come rushing in one by one, taking over quickly but softly consulting with one another, Harry stands still, staring at the scene in front of him. The dead body of Barty Crouch Jr. is lying limp in a corner of the room, his eyes wide and limbs in positions that aren’t possible without breaking or even shattering a bone or two.

Looking over at Draco, he sees a set of four Healers feverishly work on him. He swallows, trying to get rid of the lump in his throat, and releases a shaky breath.

Finally he turns, facing Hermione. She’s as pale as a ghost. Her hair is a mess, knotted and sticking out in random places, blood dripping from one of the strands. Her lips are purple, her eyes bloodshot, her clothes ripped. Not sure what to say, he doesn’t say anything.

"Victoria’s dead," she finally breathes. Her voice is hoarse and cracks at the end of the sentence. "Had been dead for a while when I got there, but they were waiting for me." She pauses and swallows audibly. "They tortured me." She says it without emotion, her face ashen, looking over at the dead body of the former Minister.

"You killed a man."

"I killed a dead man."

*

"Just one more," the Healer says as he taps his wand against Draco’s throat. "There, that should do it." Draco inhales as he feels his magic flood back into his body.

"How do you feel?" Harry asks worriedly.

Draco reaches out and grabs Harry’s wand from his back pocket. Harry lets him, curiosity and nerves almost overwhelming him.

"Wingardium Leviosa," Draco says softly and one of the Healer’s quills gets lifted up into the air. Draco gasps, a single tear rolling over his cheek. Annoyed, he rubs it off with the palm of his hand and smiles at Harry, who reaches out and lays a hand on his shoulder. Squeezing, he smiles back.

"Told you."

*

Bowing deeply, Harry enters the office. "Minister," he says.

"I never thought I’d be back here," the deep voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt answers. "No need to bow for me, Harry," he then says. "So tell me, what can I help you with?"

Harry sits down in one of the comfy armchairs facing Kingsley’s desk. He pauses for a moment, not sure what to say, before deciding to keep it clear and simple. "Hermione…"

"Ah," the Minister answers. "Yes, I thought you might come to ask about her." He pauses and looks Harry in the eye before sighing. "She’s fine, my boy. In custody, but fine."

"Where is she?" Harry asks.

Kingsley leans in over his desk and links his fingers together. "She’s downstairs," he says and raises his voice when Harry tries to interrupt. "But not for long."

When Harry doesn’t answer, he continues. "Miss Granger was right when she said that she killed a dead man."

Leaning back in his chair, Harry releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

"The former Minister…" Kingsley pauses, obviously uncomfortable with his own choice of words. "Barty Crouch Jr.," he corrects, "was sentenced to a Dementor’s kiss roughly a decade ago. Miss Granger, however illegal her deed, in my opinion granted him a more merciful fate."

He stands up and Harry, feeling the conversation is over, does the same. "And since I am the Minister for Magic and Head of the Order of the Phoenix, my opinion matters at least a little bit, I think." He winks at Harry before holding out his hand. Harry shakes it once, firmly.

"Thank you," he says. "For everything."

"That’s quite alright," Kingsley answers with a cheeky smile and a sparkle in his eyes. "Now, I think somebody’s waiting for you."

Harry, confused at the statement, turns, and sees Draco waiting for him, leaning in the doorway of the Minister’s office, wand in hand and a smile promising more.

And right then and there, Harry knows all is well with the world again.

~ Fin

[Fic] Cold Case 1/2

lordes — Tue, 18 Feb 2014 11:43:00 GMT

Title: Cold Case
Author: lordes
Recipient: winterdaffodils
Pairing: Harry Potter/ Draco Malfoy
Wordcount: ~16k
Warnings: Uses of the Cruciatus Curse, heavy emotions
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, his world nor his husband belong to me.
Summary: Five years after the war, Kingsley Shacklebolt has been replaced as Minister for Magic by Minister Cyneric, who is set on re-opening every single closed Death Eater case. Unfortunately, Draco's name is amongst them, assessed with the highest danger rating possible. Not able to live with the sentence given to him, Draco will have to find a way out of the mess the Minister has created for him and Harry…alive.
AO3: COLD CASE
Author's notes: First and foremost, thank you 'T' for the extreme thorough beta and 'S' and 'S' for all the help! Without any of you this would not have been possible. Also thanks to the Mod for her everlasting patience and smarts.
Dear winterdaffodils, I had so much fun writing this, even when neither Harry nor Draco wanted to work with me. I hope you'll like it!

This piece was originally written for hpholiday's Christmas fest and originally posted HERE.

The room is a dark, almost mossy shade of green. Torches are lighting only part of the walls, hiding most faces of the attending Wizengamot members in shadows. One of them, an elderly wizard with a long black beard streaked with grey, nervously clears his throat, while a young blond woman on the other side of the room reshuffles a stack of papers for the second time.

"Reopening the case of Draco Abraxas Malfoy." The man sitting at the head of the table taps the file in front of him once with his wand. He is middle-aged, has dark, shoulder length hair tied in a short ponytail on his back and auburn robes. "Aged 22. Currently residing on 147 Chester Square, London with Mister H.J. Potter. Current case status: dismissed." He swishes his wand once to make the papers float into the middle of the room to stay and circle around each other. "Discussing the new evidence in case number 3094, Gylden Bungard has the floor."

The younger blond woman nervously looks around and swallows audibly in the eerie silence of the room. She picks up the stack of parchment in front of her, her hands shaking so badly she has to put it down for a minute to calm herself. "I don’t think we should do this," she tries, glancing at the Head Auror before trying to find the eyes of her fellow members. "I think we’re making a mistake." Her tone is urgent and serious, yet soft enough it could be considered a whisper.

The room stays silent, not one person present daring to voice their opinion openly with the Head Auror in the room. Orders were clear, orders were strict: every single war case would be reopened, starting with anybody suspected of having been fighting on the side of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

"And why," the Head Auror starts in a bored tone, "would you think this is a mistake, Miss Bungard?" She can’t see it, but can almost hear the cocked eyebrow in his voice. She knows he thinks she is inexperienced, lucky to have got a job so many wanted, so many who, in his eyes, could’ve done a much better job than herself.

"We shouldn’t forget we’re not just dealing with Mister Malfoy," she says. Her hands start shaking again and she curls them into fists in an attempt to control her nerves. "It was Mister Potter himself who pleaded against the Ministry considering Mister Malfoy’s case." The Head Auror stays quiet, staring at her with what looks to her like a very unimpressed expression. When it seems like he is not going to answer her, she tries to continue, but is interrupted.

"The Ministry does not fear Mister Potter, nor his opinion of us," he says. "Do I make myself clear?" He doesn’t wait for an answer before he continues. "The evidence, Miss Bungard."

Gylden looks down at her papers, defeated, and nods once. "I sent each of you a file with the aforementioned evidence, which you have all read by now. The evidence, derived from sources of the Minister for Magic himself, are primary in source, secondary in documentation." She puts down the file she was holding and points her wand at the others still floating in mid-air. A quick flick of her wand has one of them floating above the others, rotating around its own axis. "As we can see in the first document-"

"We’ve all seen the evidence." The elderly man with the dark beard on the other side of the room stands as he speaks. "And I am sure we can all agree it is of the highest importance this case is handled immediately."

"Ezekiel is right," another man says. He is shorter and somewhat chubby with the nose of a pig. He speaks robustly, so much so that spit regularly flies out with every hard consonant. "The evidence, if in case, valid, is rather disturbing indeed."

A woman, probably around her forties, with long red curls, gets up. "Immediate action is required to ensure the safety of the Wizarding World," she says, her face stern.

"That is assuming the evidence that has been found is valid," Gylden says. "According to-"

"I thought we had established the evidence to be valid enough to be used in the Wizengamot trial of Mister Malfoy already?" Aldrin says sarcastically. "I think we are ready to assign a rating to Mister Malfoy." He looks around the room calmly, a determined look in his eyes.

"Anybody in favour of giving Draco Abraxas Malfoy a five-star rating raise your hands, please."

A set of 48 hands are raised, only Gylden’s and a woman’s she didn’t recognised stay down. Their eyes lock, Gylden’s confused, the woman’s sad.

"Adopted." Aldren’s voice rings through the room. "From this day on, Draco Abraxas Malfoy will be guilty of treason against the Ministry of Magic on the account of Death Eater practises and will from now on be guarded under the five-star danger rating." He swishes his wand, and as the papers rotating in the middle of the room come floating back to him he says: "Gentlemen." The Aurors at the door turn and salute. "Immediate repercussion shall be executed." He then looks around the room one last time. "You are dismissed."

As she leaves the room with the rest of the Wizengamot members, Gylden can’t shake off the feeling of having made a terrible mistake today. Something wasn’t right about all of this. Something was definitely not right.

*

The weather is cold and windy as Harry and Draco make their way over to the front door of their old English home. It’s a beautiful home, Harry has to agree, even though it might just be a little too pompous for him. However, his husband seems to love it and it isn’t the Manor, so Harry is okay with it. Not to mention that the view from their living- and bedroom is absolutely amazing.

As they enter they are greeted by their House Elf, Pip. Pip had joined them in their home roughly a year after Harry and Draco had begun living there. She had been fired by her last owner for being too peppy, which Draco had initially mistaken for the word ‘pippy’. This had resulted in the nickname ‘Pip’. It fit her well, and as she was now officially a ‘rescue elf’, Hermione didn’t seem to oppose, which was a good thing for the overall peace, too.

"Master Draco sir has company," she squeaks nervously as Harry puts his scarf and coat on the peg in their hallway. "They is being in the sitting room. Pip has already been giving them tea, sirs."

"Tell them we’ll be in shortly," Draco says and gives the tiny house-elf a quick pet before she walks back into their sitting room, her steps small and hasty.

Harry looks expectantly at Draco. "Were we expecting anybody?"

Draco shakes his head slowly. "Not that I know of," he says before looking back at Harry. "Did she seem extra nervous, somehow?" He hands Harry his coat and scarf which join Harry’s on the peg.

"Doesn’t she always?" Harry asks and smiles, throwing his arm around Draco’s shoulders. Draco has been a little paranoid ever since the war has ended, and uninvited strangers in their house is not a good sign in his book, Harry knows. "Everything will be fine," he says. He lets his arm fall from Draco’s shoulders and takes his hand. "Come on, let’s see who’s here for us."

As they enter their sitting room, Harry sees a group of roughly eight Aurors sitting and standing around. Harry recognises maybe a couple of them, but the rest look unfamiliar to him. "Can we help you, gentlemen?" he asks. Draco is partly hiding behind him, not so much that it’s noticeable but just enough for him to feel safe enough around a group of men he doesn’t know personally.

"Draco Abraxas Malfoy?" a larger man in dark red robes in the back of the room asks. His black hair is tied back in a short ponytail. Harry recognises him from pictures to be the current Head Auror, but knows nothing else about him.

"Yes?" Draco says insecurely. Harry feels him gripping his hand tighter and squeezes back in reassurance.

The Head Auror moves so swift and unexpected that neither Harry nor Draco have enough time to respond. Harry gets blasted against the far wall of their sitting room as two Aurors corner Draco. A quick spell from the third disarms Draco while a fourth casts a binding spell on Harry’s arms. He screams and a burst of his magic shatters the windows and every single other glass item present in the room. Two more Aurors grab him and hold him down as he watches the Head Auror cast a spell on Draco. A single silvery thread gets shot out of the tip of the Auror’s wand and wraps itself around Draco’s neck. As Draco scrunches his eyes shut tightly, twitching on the floor in pain, the black-haired man unrolls a scroll of parchment.

"Draco Abraxas Malfoy," he begins. "From this day forward you are officially convicted as a former Death Eater and direct threat to our Wizarding Society. Therefore you shall live on, banned from using magic. In case you breach your sentence and the rules which have been laid upon you, you shall be transported to Azkaban for life, immediately."

Harry struggles to get free of the two men still restraining him. "You can’t do this!" he screams. "He was cleared of all charges years ago, you have no right-"

"Spare me your assumptions and accusations," Aldrin says in a bored tone as he lets go of the end of the scroll, which rolls back up. He waves his hand once and the two Aurors let go of Harry’s arms as Aldrin casts a Finite Incantatem. Harry wastes no time, gets up and pulls out his wand. The Head Auror looks at him, annoyance clearly visible on his face.

"Now is not the time for heroes, Mister Potter," he says. "So if you know what’s good for you and your…" he shoots a glance at Draco, "husband," he spits the word out as if it’s something disgusting, "you’ll put your wand away."

Harry is breathing heavily. Anger is soaring through him and as he sees Draco’s unconscious body lying on the ground next to him he is torn between running over to him to make sure he’s okay and ripping out the Head Auror’s throat. He decides on the first, puts his wand away, shoots the Auror a look of pure hatred and rushes over to Draco’s side.

Aldrin chuckles. "See, now that’s a good boy." It comes out in a drawl and even though Harry isn’t looking, he can still hear the smugness present in the man’s voice. He turns to look Aldrin in the eye. "This is not the end of it," he threatens.

"Oh, I don’t doubt it is," Aldrin replies, eyebrow cocked and smug smile visible. He turns and leaves through the front door, the team of Aurors he brought with him following without sparing them as much as a second glance.

*

The Ministry is bustling with life when Harry Apparates inside. The wards crackle around him, protesting against the vile intrusion. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about anything but speaking to the Minister for Magic and setting what has been done straight as soon as possible. People around him give surprised yelps as he so impudently appears in their midst. After all, Apparating within the Ministry or on-or-off Ministry ground has been impossible ever since the demise of Voldemort, and even before that only licenced people could do it.

Harry takes a quick look around, notes the surprised looks and starts walking towards security. The man behind the desk seems very young. His shoulders are hunched in what seems to be almost a permanent shrug, and when Harry approaches him he ducks his head. Harry shoots the lad a dangerous look when he is asked for the registration of his wand and stalks right past him.

When he reaches the lifts they are filled completely with people. However, Harry doesn’t feel like he has time to waste and pulls a man in dark purple robes out of one of them. The man starts to protest, but stops when he sees Harry’s scar.

"Mister Potter," he starts, surprise and shock evident in his voice. The rest of his sentence gets muffled as the doors of the lift violently close on them. An awkward silence hangs in the air as they slowly go down the shaft. Harry cocks his head sideways a couple of times and manages to crack his neck twice. He is angry.

As he stalks towards the Minister’s office a set of two Aurors try to stop him. One of them is older, probably mid thirties, and has an ashen kind of short, blond hair. His robes fit him well and his stance is secure, emitting an aura of authority. The other Auror is smaller, probably only a trainee, has dark brown curly hair and is wearing robes that are at least one size too big on him.

"Halt!" the older of the two calls out as Harry walks right past them. He doesn’t pay the two any attention until he hears the start of the chant for a stunning curse. Harry whirls around, wand at the ready, and blocks the curse without too much trouble.

"Expelliarmus!" he calls out and disarms both of the Aurors facing him at the same time. As he gives them a small salute with their wands, he turns back around and continues his way down to the Minister’s office.

When he enters the oval office the Minister is working at his desk. Harry moves towards it and angrily slams both his hands down onto it.

Unimpressed, the Minister looks Harry straight in the eye, causing Harry to have to swallow away the sudden unexplainable feeling of nausea. "And what can I do for you today, Mister Potter?" he asks.

Harry is fuming now. How dare the man be so calm! "I don’t know what you were thinking," he says, voice raised and nostrils flared, "but you undo what you did right now!"

"Take a seat." The Minister’s calm tone does nothing to ease Harry’s anger and so he refuses. Instead, he raises himself back up, back straight and eyes looking down at the man in front of him.

"If you think you can intimidate me, you are mistaken," the Minister says. "Now what exactly can I help you with?"

Harry gives the man another once over. Minister Cyneric had taken Kingsley’s place after the last elections. Harry has always thought of him as a somewhat peculiar man, and even now the presence of the man has small shivers run down his spine. There is just something off about him, something Harry can’t quite place. It’s almost as if he’d seen the man before somewhere.

"It’s about my husband," Harry says and, when Cyneric doesn’t respond, adds: "Draco Malfoy." Harry takes a deep breath to calm himself down just enough to speak to the Minister in a calm and clear tone. "He was cleared of all charges roughly five years ago. Today, a group of your Aurors came marching in our home with the news that he was once again convicted of Death Eater practices."

Cyneric nods but doesn’t say anything, so Harry continues. "I want this solved. I want the conviction reversed."

"Take a seat, Mister Potter," the Minister repeats while directing his hand at the chair on Harry’s side of the desk. This time Harry obeys, hoping it will at least favor him in getting this problem solved.

Now the Minister stands up and Harry curses inwardly, Auror lesson number one: never give your opponent the idea they are in a more powerful position than you. "You might not be aware," Cyneric starts, "but for the past year or so the Ministry has been going over so-called ‘cold cases’. Cases the last Minister deemed…" Cyneric pauses for a moment. "Unsolvable."

Harry cocks an eyebrow at the man. Draco’s case hadn’t been unsolvable, it had been dismissed.

"Ah," Cyneric continues. "I know what you’re thinking, Mister Potter. Mister Malfoy’s case was indeed not necessarily unsolvable. However..." Harry sees him look him up and down once, giving him the chills. There is just something about this man… "the only reason Mister Malfoy was cleared of all charges was because of lack of substantial proof. Proof that has now been found."

"Okay," Harry says, "then I’d like to see such proof."

"Ah, but here’s the problem with that." Cyneric smiles a toothy grin."You gave up that right when you resigned your position as an Auror, Mister Potter."

*

The house is warm and inviting when Harry comes home. The fires are lit, probably by Pip, and there’s a nice melody playing on the wireless. Harry steps out of the fireplace and makes his way through the sitting room area into the hallway. A soft humming in Latin can be heard from upstairs and Harry sighs in relief; at least the Healer is already working on Draco.

The first thing Harry had done when the Auror squad had left was Floo for Hermione. Draco had been unconscious and, unable to wake him up, Harry had panicked. Hermione had wasted no time and had come over straight away, promising Harry to get in touch with a Healer as fast as she could while Harry Apparated away loudly.

When Harry enters their bedroom the Healer looks up and puts his wand down on one of the bedside tables.

"And?" Harry asks worriedly as he shakes the Healer’s hand. He’s seen the man plenty of time before at St Mungo’s. He is a kind man, around his forties, with dark skin and even darker hair.

"He hasn’t shown any other signs of life yet," Healer August says. Harry chokes, his eyes darting from the limp body of his husband to the Healer and back. "Not to worry, Mister Potter," August smiles and reaches out for him, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. "His body is in shock. With time and rest he’ll be absolutely fine."

Harry nods. "And the spell?" he asks.

"Only time will tell what the exact effects are." August’s face is grim. Dropping his hand from Harry’s shoulder he picks up his wand and casts a nonverbal spell on Draco. Several areas on his body begin to glow instantly.

August hovers his hand over one of the brighter spots. "The magical currents within his body are moving and weak," he says, proceeding further down, "and they all seem to be aiming directly towards where Mister Malfoy was hit with the curse." He flicks his wand and lifts the spell, making the room dim down instantly. "There is really no telling what the end result will be, I’m afraid, Mister Potter.

As the Healer leaves Harry lets himself fall into the big and comfortable chair next to the bed. He closes his eyes and sighs, rubbing his hands over his tired face.

"Oh Draco…"

*

"How is he doing?" The words have left her mouth before she’s even properly stepped out of the fireplace. She dusts herself off gracefully and hands her cloak to Pip.

"Thank yous Mistress ma’am," Pip squeaks before running off to put the silky garment away.

Narcissa ignores the elf and stares at Harry, who notices for the first time how old she’s really started to look.

"We don’t know," he says and holds up his hand when he sees Narcissa is about to say something. "Let me finish, Mistress Malfoy." Staying calm is hard. Preferably Harry would be slamming a certain Minister and Head Auror against a few walls or more, but as that isn’t going to help his case any, he decided staying calm was the best way to go for both him and Draco. The one person who needs him most right now.

"Healer August was here yesterday and according to his findings, Draco will be fine. We just don’t know in what way yet."

Narcissa raises her chin defiantly, eyes blazing, reminding Harry that she is not only his husband’s caring mother, but also still a Black by blood and Malfoy by marriage. The one Malfoy who stood against Voldemort’s will and spilled his plans to another man, at that.

"And who exactly were the men who did this to my son?" She almost spits the words in disgust. "I have a right to know. Draco-"

"Needs us by his side," Harry interrupts. He sees Narcissa blink rapidly a couple of times, mouth set in a grim line, probably not used to people cutting her off like that. Sitting down in a huff, she crosses her legs ever so elegantly. "Then at least come to the Manor with me," she says, hands folded in her lap. "He’ll have more room there and infinite resources in potions and Healers. We only have the best of the best, of course."

Harry sighs inwardly, he’d been expecting this request. "I’d rather have him stay here with me," he says and quickly adds: "At least for now. But I’ll ask him what he prefers when he wakes."

"If he wakes," Narcissa says quietly.

"When he wakes. I have the fullest confidence in Healer August," Harry answers.

They sit in absolute silence for a while, the only sound the flames crackling in the big, white marble fireplace. Harry tries to imagine how hard it must be for her - husband in Azkaban for life, her son’s life uncertain and her own future unclear - but fails. The only thing he is capable of feeling right now is his worry for Draco and his anger towards the Ministry.

In the end, it is Harry who breaks the quiet. "Have you heard anything from the Ministry yet?" he asks.

Narcissa shakes her head calmly, eyes on an invisible spot on the far end wall, before looking over at Harry. "No. But neither you nor my son had any warning beforehand either, had you?"

Harry doesn’t say anything as the answer to her question is obvious.

"In any way, it would be unnecessary," she continues. "As far as the Ministry is concerned, I’m safely in my family’s chateau in France." A small smile plays on her lips. "I am safe. For now."

Harry nods, but before he can say any more the fireplace starts blazing again and Hermione steps through. At first she sees only Harry and is about the speak until her eyes find Narcissa’s.

Both women stare at each other for a moment, neither party unwilling to break contact before the other one does. Hermione looks pale, fists clenched tightly. It might’ve been years, but she still can’t be in the same room as Narcissa Malfoy, memories of the war and the Manor still fresh on her mind. Narcissa on the other hand looks rather calm, and a bit solemn.

"I should leave," she says as she gets up. Pip immediately comes running in with Narcissa’s cloak. Again not acknowledging the tiny creature, she puts it on and walks towards the fireplace. "Thank you for your time, Harry," she says before disappearing in the flames. "Take good care of my son."

Hermione opens the bag she’s carrying right away, taking out a set of ten books or so. "I’ve been going over and through every document and book I could find considering Wizarding Law," she says. "But there’s nothing we can do to the Ministry. They have every right to go over these so-called ‘cold cases’."

Harry rakes a hand through his hair, making it stand up in some places before shaking his head. "They can’t do this," he protests. "They can’t just re-open old cases because they’re not agreeing with the old Wizagamot’s verdict!"

"And that’s exactly the problem," she says. "Draco was never cleared, nor voted an innocent man. His case was dismissed due to lack of substantial proof from either side." She pauses to let this information sink in. "Harry, his case was never closed."

*

The big clock above the mantelpiece chimes eleven times as Healer August arrives through the Floo. He dusts off his cloak a bit before taking it off and handing it to Pip. Harry closes one of the many Wizarding Law books he has open on the table and sighs.

"Anything so far?" the Healer asks him. By now they’ve turned into questions of formality, as they both know Harry is unable to find anything and probably never will.

Harry shakes his head. "It all seems perfectly legal what they’re doing, Emanuel."

The Healer nods solemnly. "It is what I feared," he says and walks towards the hallway to go up and see Draco. As he passes Harry he stops and softly lays his big hand on Harry’s shoulder, squeezing once. "It’ll be okay, son."

When Emanuel has left the room Harry sits back down heavily in his chair. It is time to hire somebody with a little more knowledge. Maybe that’ll get them somewhere.

*

"Draco!" Harry jumps up out of his chair as his husband walks, somewhat shakily, into the kitchen. Draco’s hair is a mess and he’s as pale as a ghost but he’s awake and walking - a huge relief to Harry who’d started to fear he might never wake up. Harry walks around the table and engulfs Draco in one of the tightest hugs he’s ever got.

"How are you feeling?" Harry asks after he’s finally let go of Draco.

Draco blinks first a couple of times before swallowing hard and smiling a weak smile with empty, watery eyes. "‘m fine," he says.

Harry’s heart breaks, but as Draco obviously doesn’t want to talk about it now he lets it go. "Can I get Pip to get you anything?" he asks instead, but Draco just shakes his head and sits down at the table, giving the man already sitting there an odd look over.

"Let me introduce myself," the man says as Harry sits back down opposite of him. "My name’s Godwin, attorney Godwin, but you may call me Gregory." He holds out his hand for Draco to shake but when Draco doesn’t move, slides his index finger into the collar of his shirt, tugging nervously at it, before continuing awkwardly. "I have been going over your case for the past few days with Harry here and-"

"Oh," Draco says. "Harry, is it?" He raises his eyebrows curiously at his husband.

Harry bites his tongue and closes his eyes for a second to keep himself calm. Draco’s jealous streak has always been something he finds hard to deal with, but just like Draco’s earlier comment he lets it slide for now.

"And Gregory here thinks we best take another close look at the new evidence the Ministry has suddenly found against you," Harry says.

"Exactly," Gregory adds. "The only way to reverse what has been done is to see if it is indeed valid evidence or not. I heard you were not present at the trial itself?"

Draco shakes his head calmly, still staring the man down.

"Right." Godwin clears his throat. "And were you notified such a trial was in progress at the time?"

Once again Draco doesn’t answer and only raises a single eyebrow.

The attorney looks from Harry to Draco and back before quickly writing something down on the parchment in front of him. "Interesting," he mumbles, mostly to himself, and stares at the wall for a while, lost in thought.

"So, I am assuming here neither of you saw any of the newly found evidence?"

Harry sees Draco roll his eyes, a snide comment probably already on his lips, and cuts in. "We haven’t. We wouldn’t even know what it is they’ve found."

Gregory nods. "Very promising," he says. "You see, if we can somehow prove that the evidence is, in fact, not valid, then they’ll once again have to dismiss the case."

"Ending us right back where we started," Draco says now, leaning in and letting his arms rest on the table in front of him. "We got in this mess in the first place because my case was, apparently..." He glances at Harry, "dismissed. They’ll just reopen it again."

"And that is where you are wrong," Godwin says with a smug smile. "Not only can evidence never be re-used after falsification, the Wizengamot will have to come up with proof for themselves as to not only get Draco’s case dismissed, but to prevent him from being cleared of all charges. Standard procedure." He leans back in his chair.

"All charges?" Draco says, leaning in, interest piqued.

"All charges," Godwin answers.

*

Harry comes walking down the stairs when he hears a loud crash in the sitting room area.

"Draco!" he calls out as he rushes down the stairs, jumps off the the last couple of steps and sprints into the room.

Entering, he finds Draco frozen and dumbfoundedly staring at the remains of a mug of tea on their hard wooden floor.

"What happened?" Harry asks as he walks over to his husband, whips out his wand and vanishes the shards and cold liquid away.

"I just wanted to make it hover," Draco says, voice small, "while grabbing a book." He holds out the book as if to show him he isn’t lying. "And it just fell." He looks back up at Harry now, eyes big and eyebrows scrunched up in confusion. "It just fell," he repeats. "Just… fell."

Draco’s breathing quickens as panic rises in his throat. He closes his eyes and Harry sees he is trying to calm himself down but losing the battle with what he imagines must be the memories of what happened with the Aurors. Harry steps closer and wraps his arms around his husband. "It’ll be alright," he chants. "Everything will be alright."

As they sit down for tea later that day, a big tawny owl taps its beak against the window impatiently. Harry sees Draco get up, but stops him with a hand on his arm. "I’ll get it," he says. "It’s probably a letter from Gregory." He opens the windows and a cold breeze comes in, making him shiver. "He told me he would get in touch the moment he’d find something," he says and gives the owl a small treat before quickly closing the window again. "I guess he did." He waves the envelope a couple of times before sitting back down and opening it.

The letter is short and simple, written on a ripped off piece of paper rather than official letter parchment, the handwriting hasty and almost illegible.

"He says there’s something majorly wrong with the evidence," Harry says. "He went to investigate, but ensures us it’s great news and will stop by tomorrow afternoon."

"That’s all?" Draco says, copying Harry’s confusion.

Harry nods and folds the bit of parchment back up. "I guess we’ll have to wait for tomorrow."

*

Harry scrunches his brow as he stares at an invisible spot on the wall, fork in mid-air and mashed potatoes slowly falling off it.

"Care to share?" Draco says and puts a forkful of his own mashed potatoes in his mouth.

Harry hums under his breath once before tearing his gaze away from the wall and shaking his head a couple of times. "Just wondering what he could’ve found, ‘s’all," he says while putting his fork back down for a new bite. He pokes away at his vegetables before looking back up at Draco. "Are you sure you don’t have any idea?"

To his amazement Draco slams his fork down on the table, throws the napkin from his lap on his plate and gets up. "I’m done here," he says before storming off.

"Draco!" Harry calls out after him, hastily putting his own napkin down as well and following his husband’s footsteps up into the bedroom. Draco is pacing, hands clenched tightly into fists and face dark.

Harry hovers in the doorway for a while, waiting for Draco to spot him, but is ignored.

"Draco- "

"No," Draco interrupts, turning towards Harry. "You think you’re helping, but you’re really not, you know that?"

Harry opens his mouth to respond but Draco cuts him off before he’s even had the chance to start talking.

"Do you think I know what he possibly could’ve found as evidence against me? Because if I do I might as well confess to the whole thing right now!" he says, angrily throwing his arms up in the air and raking his hands through his hair.

"Draco I wasn’t -" Harry starts.

"YES YOU WERE!" Draco screams. "It’s been like this all day and yesterday since that bloody letter arrived." He huffs disdainfully. "Draco, do you know what this could be? Draco, do you have any idea? Draco, think, what could he have found? Well, I don’t know what it could’ve been, Harry, but obviously you think I do!"

He spreads his arms as if to make a point, knocking over a vase filled with flowers from the dresser in the process. Before either of them can react it has fallen onto the ground and shattered into a million pieces. Draco curses, holds out his hand and falls completely still.

Harry, wand already in hand to fix the vase, realises only a second too late what it was that his husband was trying to do. He walks over to Draco and softly puts his hand on his back. Draco looks pale, almost sickly so, mouth set into a firm grim. Harry opens his mouth to say something and sees Draco clench his open hand back into a fist, turning his head away from him. After giving Draco a reassuring pat on the back, Harry nods once and leaves the room.

As he gets back into the kitchen Pip hurriedly comes up to him. "Is Master Draco sir going to bees okay, sir?" she asks, concern clear in her voice, eyes big and round as she stares up at Harry.

Harry kneels down and pats her on the head. "He’ll be okay," he says as he ruffles her ears. She scrunches up her eyes and lets out a soft giggle. "And Mister Harry Potter sir? Can Pip do anything to makes him feels better?"

"No, that’s quite alright, Pip," Harry says and stands back up. Before he’s out of the room he turns back around. "On second thought," he says and sees Pip already starting to nod, making him smile. The eager house-elf she is, she’s always trying to find ways to make her owners feel at home. Or well, employers, that should be, as Pip is always wearing clothes of the most expensive brands and highest couture, Draco would see to that. Right now she’s wearing a soft yellow and white ruffled dress with a big bow around her neck, tied in front. Harry had laughed the first time Draco had showed it to him, convinced he’d just robbed a doll shop from the eighteen hundreds, but Pip had fallen in love with it at first sight. This meant that, technically, she was a free elf, even when she wasn’t accepting any payment other than pretty dresses, ruffled socks and shoes so polished Harry could almost use them as a mirror.

"I’ll do the dishes tonight." He sees her look at him in confusion. "It’ll give me something to keep me distracted with for now."

*

Harry jumps as the clock strikes midnight. After the dishes he’d laid down on the big sofa in the library and had closed his eyes for just a minute, which had turned out to be closer to a few hours. He blinks and stretches, looking around for Pip or Draco. When neither of them seem to be around he calls for the house-elf.

"Did anybody Floo in while I was sleeping?" he asks her when she pops into the room.

Pip shakes her head, making her ears flop around. "No. Was sir expecting somebody?"

Harry looks back at the clock, checking the time again. It really is midnight. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, trying to think. "I," he starts but pauses and looks back at the elf. "Yes, but it’s okay." He smiles at her. "I’ll be going to bed now, Pip, can you take care of the candles?"

"Of course, Mister Harry Potter sir!" she happily squeaks. "Good night!"

"Good night, Pip."

When Harry enters the bedroom Draco is already in bed with the lights turned off. When he carefully lifts the covers and gets, into the bed Harry feels Draco’s body stiffen next to him. He waits for him to turn and say something, but when nothing happens, Harry decides to leave him be for now.

He places a soft kiss on Draco’s shoulder as he lies down and closes his eyes, deciding he’ll Floo Godwin in the morning.

*

When Harry opens his eyes the next morning he notices that the other half of the bed is already empty. He stretches, tiredly rubs his hands over his face and gets out of bed. Tying his dressing gown on the way down, he hears somebody rummage in the library. He takes a few steps towards the sound before he hears Draco curse loudly. That convinces him it’s probably a better idea to leave the library alone right now and turns to go make them a nice cup of hot tea before trying.

Entering the library, now with a tray containing a big teapot filled with cinnamon-apple tea and two cups, he notices Draco propped up against one of the many bookshelves, reading a big, dusty, leather-bound book. As the light of the morning sun comes in through one of the bigger windows it hits Draco, revealing the odd shimmer that is the spell. Harry notes to himself that, however ironic it might be, it looks rather beautiful.

"Hey," he says as he sits down in front of Draco and hands him one of the cups.

Draco looks up at him and gives Harry a small smile as he accepts the tea. "Hi."

"Wait," Harry says as he sees Draco carefully raise the cup to his lips. Taking out his wand, he casts a soft cooling charm on it, just enough to make it drinkable, getting a soft ‘thank you’ from Draco.

"So what are you reading?" Harry tries, happy that Draco has apparently calmed down enough to not feel the urge to start yelling at him again.

Draco shrugs. "Just some magic things," he says as he pushes the book away from Harry, who reaches over and grabs it anyway. Draco lets his head fall back against the bookcase and closes his eyes with a sigh.

"You make it very hard for me not to strangle you," he mumbles, and Harry laughs softly in response.

However, that laugh quickly disappears as he looks down at the title and reads Squibs and Magic: How, What and Why? by Elina Burstrow. Harry swallows audibly and puts the book back where Draco had pushed it to.

"It’ll be alright," he says softly, and for a moment he isn’t sure if he’s talking to Draco or himself.

Draco doesn’t seem to notice and opens his eyes again. "You think?" he asks and, not waiting for an answer, continues, "I don’t exactly have a lot of faith in your Godwin friend."

Harry takes a sip from his tea before answering. "You just don’t like him," he says. "And you’re not exactly keeping an open mind towards him."

"It’s not him, Harry," Draco says. "Well, maybe a bit." Harry smiles into his cup. "But let’s face it: I might be Harry Potter’s husband, but above anything else I am and will always be a Malfoy in the eyes of the Ministry."

"Draco," Harry begins but hesitates, not sure what to say.

"Let’s not argue. At least not for today," Draco says and Harry nods. "What did he say?"

"He didn’t show," Harry says and, when Draco cocks an eyebrow at him quickly adds, "I was on my way to Floo him when I heard you in here."

"I wonder what kind of excuse he’ll have," Draco muses as he picks his book back up.

"I’m not sure," Harry says and puts his hand on the book’s cover, preventing Draco from opening it. "But I’m sure it’ll be valid." He pushes his hand down firmer when he feels Draco trying to open it anyway. "I trust him Draco," he continues. "And I suggest you try to do the same. Now, don’t read things you shouldn’t be reading and I’ll be right back."

"Hmf," is the only response Harry gets as he gives him a quick kiss on the forehead before getting up and leaving the room.

Roughly ten minutes later, Harry sits back on his heels and closes the Floo with a swish of his hand. As the green flames turn back into their red and orangy state he sighs, letting his head hang for a while. Neither Godwin nor his house-elf are answering his calls. Worry is slowly creeping up on him; what could’ve caused his sudden absence?

"He didn’t answer," he says as he sees Draco look up hopefully when he re-enters the library. He closes the double doors behind him softly as Draco rakes a hand through his hair, and then another, turning towards the window. Immediately the curse around his neck starts to shimmer again. Harry walks towards him and, kneeling down, softly strokes the line with his fingers.

"It really is quite beautiful, you know," he says, giving his husband a small smile.

"Beautiful?!" Draco says. "Well, lucky me, then. I might not have my magic anymore, but at least I’m beautiful. Thank you Harry." He closes his book and Harry notices the tremor in his hands.

"Since when are you hands shaking?" Harry asks and drops his own.

"Huh?" Draco says before looking down. "Oh." He shakes his head quickly. "It’s nothing, they’ve been like that for a couple of days now. Probably just the stress."

Harry scowls but says nothing.

"I’m going to see Hermione for a bit, care to join me?" he asks after a while.

"No, thanks," Draco answers, clenching his hands in a futile attempt to make the shaking appear a little less.

"You’ll be okay on your own then?"

Draco nods and stares out of the window again, avoiding Harry’s eyes.

"Okay then," Harry says and after softly squeezing Draco’s shoulder, gets up and leaves.

When he closes the library doors behind him once more, he pretends he doesn’t hear a heavy book being slammed against one of the bookshelves.

PART 2

[FIC] Follow Your Dreams - 2/2

lordes — Tue, 04 Feb 2014 22:26:31 GMT

Title: Follow Your Dreams - Part 1
Author: lordes
Character(s): George Weasley, Fred Weasley
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Canonical character death, non-canonical character death, dealing with the loss of a twin, strong emotions, depression, implied suicidal thoughts.
Wordcount: 12300
Summary: After Fred’s death, George loses his will to live. Nothing seems important anymore until he has a dream. A dream about Fred. They start ‘meeting’ more frequently and George seems to have come back from the dead. Until a worse fate befalls him.
AO3: FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS
Author’s notes: Without masterde this piece would’ve never been written. He was my bunny, even though he might not have realised it. So thank you for that, Pup. Also, thanks to queeniemab for all her patience with me and for lordhellebore for the fantastic beta read. ♥

This piece was originally written for hp_darkarts' Shadow of the Season fest and originally posted HERE.

Loud banging on the door violently wakes George up. In his hurry to get out of bed to open his front door he gets stuck in his duvet, trips and falls flat on his face, arms still too busy trying to get rid of the blankets around his feet. He groans just as he hears a familiar voice yell at him.

"George! George, are you okay?"

"M’fine," George manages to yell back at Bill, whom he can now hear walking through his living room towards his bedroom. The door opens just as George manages to sit up.

"What?" he asks, annoyed at the sudden interruption of his dream, if that is what you could call last night. He rubs his hands over his face, combs one of them through his hair a couple of times and gets up, throwing the blankets back onto his bed.

"What?" Bill repeats. "It’s 11am and Wheezes is still closed, that’s what."

George grunts once and makes his way to the door and grabs the keys to the shop. By doing so he notices the reflection of a very recognisable redhead following him, making him sigh in relief. Fred is still there.

"Here," he says as he throws the keys at Bill. "Open the shop for me, will you? I’ll be down in a minute, I just want to take a quick shower."

Not giving his brother enough time to think of some sort of smart reply, George rushes through the bathroom door and closes it behind him. He turns on the shower and while the steam of the warm water fills the small room, he sees Fred appear in the mirror on the far end wall.

"You know," he starts, "for a minute there I was worried you wouldn’t be here anymore." He takes his shirt off and throws it on the pile next to the sink. It is starting to grow bigger than it, and he admits it is probably time to do his laundry soon. Sometimes he wishes he was still living at home, if only for the convenience of freshly washed clothes every single Sunday.

"It’s silly, of course," he continues as he takes his bottoms off, too. "There is no reason you would disappear now, not after last night."

George pauses for a moment, naked, holding the shorts he just took off in his hand. He smiles a quick smile before throwing them, too, on the pile, adding just enough for it to slowly topple over and spread over his floor.

"Great," George mumbles as he kicks his dirty clothing back together until he decides the pile looks pile-ish enough again.

He jumps into the shower and grabs the bottle of shampoo before realising something. "Where do you go, anyway, when I’m not around to provide you with a reflection?" He sticks his head out of the shower curtain again, not looking directly at the mirror but still noticing Fred in it. "Do you just disappear for a while, or don’t you need me at all?" he says as he smiles again. "Maybe I’m just imagining things." He slowly combs his hands through his now shampooed hair. "Maybe you’re never truly gone." George pauses, staring at the wall in front of him for a while, lost in thought. Shrugging the odd sensation off, he continues the thorough cleaning of his hair.

"You know," he calls out a little louder than is maybe necessary. "I actually thought I was crazy for the first five minutes I saw you." He pauses as if giving Fred the chance to reply, but when nothing comes, he continues. "I’m happy I know now I’m not."

*

He finds Bill behind the registry, taking an order of an elderly man for what sounds like his grandson’s birthday party, and decides to give them both some space while he does his round through the shop. Bill is obviously capable enough to handle it himself. He makes his way through the crowd, shaking hands here and there, waving at the always familiar person and is about to walk up the flight of stairs leading to the second floor when he notices his mother waving at him from behind a group of people forming an impenetrable wall.

"Excuse me," he hears her say. "Yes, yes, excuse me, dear. Thank you. Yes, thank you." George notices her arms are filled with stuff, making him chuckle. His dear old mother will probably never change.

As she reaches him she hands him every single lotion, Puff and potion that she is carrying and gives him three solid kisses on his cheeks before planting one on his forehead. "It’s so good to see you again," she says. "It’s been too long already."

George laughs loudly this time. "Mum, I think Bill would like me to relieve him now, he’s been here since 11."

"As have I," she says as she tries to wipe an invisible smudge off his nose. "He’ll be fine. Now, I think it’s time to buy your mother a nice cup of hot tea."

*

"I’ll have you know we were all so very worried," his mother says as she takes a small sip from her cup. They have settled in one of the cozy tea rooms in Diagon Alley, not too far from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. The interior is a soft pink, strangely reminding him of Umbridge and leaving a sour aftertaste in his mouth every time he drinks from his tea.

"And obviously everybody grieves in their own way, we all had to, too," she continues. "But you…" She pauses and puts her hand over his . He notices how old it looks. Sometimes he still sees her in the same way she looked like when he and Fred were young children. She would bounce around the house, make sure they were well fed and dressed warmly enough, and often sing along horribly with old radio songs. He smiles at the memory of her, and of him and Fred. Fred…

"I can’t take much credit, though," George says before his mother is able to continue her story. "It’s mostly been Fred. Without him I’d still be hiding away in my flat." He looks up at her and sees her blinking away at her tears.

"Sweetheart," his mother starts off carefully. She pets his hand twice before softly squeezing it. "You know Fred is gone, right?"

"Oh, but he isn’t," he says, smiling a big toothy grin, and this time it is his turn to squeeze his mother’s hand reassuringly. "He’s here, mum, right here. He always is."

For a minute they are both silent. George does not understand. Why is his mother not happy? He would have jumped at the opportunity if somebody had told him they had a way for him to be reunited with his brother.

"We all carry him in our hearths with us, Georgie," she says after a while. "And… and I’m happy that’s given you the strength you needed to move on."

*

As George enters his flat the first thing he notices is the reflection following him from the corner of his eye. He takes off his jacket and angrily throws it on the dark auburn couch as the memory of his mother’s words rings through his head.

"Fine, then she doesn’t understand." He huffs as he lets himself fall back on the same couch he threw his jacket on and lets his head fall back onto the backrest. "See if I care." It comes out in a mumble.

As the light slowly moves through his room and Diagon Alley grows quiet once more, he sits back up and rakes a shaking hand through his hair.

"I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. It’ll just be our secret."

He waits, knowing Fred will not answer but still hoping, deep down inside, that he might. It has happened before, and so it could happen again.

"It’s just the two of us, now."

*

The sound of a vaguely familiar song ushers George to open his eyes and when he does, he notices he is back on the red-bricked road. For a minute he stands still and closes his eyes again, taking in the melody of the song, but it just doesn’t click. He sighs and turns, expecting to see Fred, but finding an empty road instead.

"Fred?" he calls out insecurely as he skims the houses around him. They are all just as dark as the night before. One by one he looks them over, almost expecting to see somebody move through one, a light going on or a door creaking in its hinges, opening to let his brother through.

"You were always the impatient one."

George, not unlike last time, spins so fast towards the sound of the voice he feels a little dizzy.

"Calm now, brother," Fred says. "I’m not going anywhere just yet."

"Yet?" George repeats in a small voice. Is he leaving already? So soon?

"It is nothing to worry about for now." Fred smiles at him and sits down. "Don’t you recognise the song?"

George looks over his shoulder into the direction of the café before looking back at Fred, following his lead and sitting down, the stones surprisingly comfortable. He sits there for a while, the soft and distant tune of the flute giving him goosebumps. Shaking his head he looks back up at his brother. He had not noticed it before, but Fred is wearing the old Weasley Christmas jumper. It is a dark red with a big yellow ‘F’ knitted into it. There are loose threads hanging from his sleeves and his jeans look two sizes too big on him. He does not look anything like the Fred whom he had to say goodbye to not too long ago. No, he looks like the old Fred. His Fred. The Fred from his memories.

"It’ll come to you," Fred says. "You’ll remember."

*

The air feels unusually cold when George awakes. Getting up he grabs his morning robe and wraps it tightly around himself. He shivers, opens the thick, long dark blue curtains keeping out the light from his bedroom and notices the snow. The whole of Diagon Alley is wrapped in a perfectly unblemished white blanket. Not one roof has been missed and the streets, still empty, giving a spectacular view.

As he walks into his living room and lits his fireplace with a flick of his wand, he thinks of what he will be doing for Christmas for the first time that year. Normally he and Fred would make sure their whole family would be well provided with nice food, a tree and presents for everybody.

"Maybe this year we could celebrate it together, just the two of us?" George asks and realises that right now, he would do anything to be able to touch him again even for just a brief moment. He thinks back to Harry and Ginny holding hands and balls his hand into a fist. If only he could hold his hand!

He decides he should ask Fred tonight. What had he said again? Something about the Universe and them not being able to touch yet. Always with the yet. He wants to know what it means already. Shaking off the feeling of uncomfortableness he stretches his back, greets the familiar move of Fred’s reflection in the mirror and makes his way to the bathroom for his morning shower while his flat slowly warms up through the hot flames of the freshly lit fire.

*

As George walks up to Fred and sits down as usual he notices the song is still playing in the background. The tune soothes him and by the time he is on the ground facing Fred, he has completely forgotten about his original question. Instead he notices another rather peculiar thing about the road they are on. It is so alike Diagon Alley, but so unlike it at the same time. Something is missing.

"There’s no snow," he points out and wonders if the place where he is now is really that much different from the place at home.

"Do you want it to snow?" Fred asks as the first snowflake softly lands on George’s nose. He looks up. The normally clear sky and stars have been replaced by dark clouds and one by one, more snowflakes start to appear around them. George holds out one of his hands and catches another flake before slowly closing his fingers around it. It melts almost instantly, yet George feels no cold.

"Only you can answer your question, brother," Fred says as he takes a strand of his hair between his fingers and pulls out one of the white crystals. "They are quite beautiful, if I may say so myself."

George is too mesmerised by the snow to answer right away. He should feel cold, he should feel wet, but neither of those things could be less true. He is just as comfortable and warm as he was before this world too turned as white as the highest mountain peak.

"Ah," he hears his brother say. "It appears we have run out of time already."

Soft orange and yellow shades appear on Fred’s face, making his already warm brown eyes look even warmer in the early morning light of the rising sun.

"It is time to wake up."

*

"How am I supposed to answer my own questions?" George lets out a frustrated groan as he takes another futile attempt at straightening his bedding. Giving up, he throws his pillows carelessly on there - not that it matters right now anyway, the bed already looks messy enough as it is - and leaves his bedroom.

"You know, as happy as I am having you back, I am as upset with you as I’ve ever been." He grabs the keys to the shop and is about to leave when he stops. Something is not right. The same uncomfortable feeling he got the day before overtakes him instantly and he turns, wand at the ready. As a shiver runs down his back; he moves through the living room, bedroom and pushes open the door to the bathroom. It’s empty.

It’s empty…

He takes another few steps towards the mirror, but nothing changes. The reflection he sees is still only his own.

*

"Where were you yesterday? And the day before?" George asks the moment he sees Fred appear. His feet left prints from where he opened his eyes to where he walked, but apart from that the snow is as white and untouched as when the sun came up the last time he had been there.

"Right here," Fred says. "Right where you want me to be."

"Do I?" George asks him, still frustrated and now also a little bit disappointed. The realisation of Fred no longer following him around had felt like a slap in the face. Lost and alone, he had not been able to open the shop, had ignored the floos from his worried friends and family and had hid in his room, waiting for night to fall.

"I am only where you imagine me being, brother." Fred moves a bit closer and sits down, expecting George to do the same, who refuses. "If that is in your reflection, watching over you, it is where I’ll be. If that is here," he spreads his arms as to make clear where exactly ‘here’ is, "this is where I’ll be waiting."

"Can’t you be in two places?" George notices how his voice almost sounds like a whine and shuts himself up immediately. Thorn between gratefulness and wanting more he starts pacing, no longer caring about keeping the blanket of snow pure. He does not know what he would want more anymore: having his time with Fred at night, talking, but having to spend his days in solitude, or having Fred by his side forever, never once being alone, but no longer being able to speak with him. Not that it matters, Fred is not exactly answering many of his questions.

"Do you want me to be in both places?"

There he goes again. George angrily kicks at the snow, but sees it has completely disappeared. Not sure if he should ask the futile question of where the snow has disappeared to or tell Fred he has had enough of him answering his questions with more questions, he sees the sun appear on the horizon. He looks at Fred, who smiles at him. While his gaze wanders back to the warm morning sky he wonders why the nights seem to grow shorter and shorter every single time he visits.

He turns to ask, but Fred has already gone. George sighs, hiding his hands in his pockets and poking at the road with the tip of his shoe before closing his eyes. It is time to wake up.

*

It is a Sunday, so the shop stays closed today. Stretching out in his bed he sighs contently, enjoying the warmth of his blankets and many pillows for just a little bit longer. When the sound of the owl delivering the Sunday Prophet appears, he decides it is time to get up.

He gives the owl a Knut and a quick treat before sending it back off into the cold weather. It is snowing again, and the sky is grey with thick, heavy clouds. One of the flakes lands on his nose and when he wrinkles it automatically in response to the cold, he smiles. It is a true smile, a smile of pure happiness and contentment. Of the memory of a precious moment with Fred.

With a happy sigh he closes the window and shuts the curtains again. There is no need for the day to begin just yet, so he walks over to his living room, lights a fire and sits down in his most comfortable chair. Being a little wet from the snow, the paper crunches loudly when he opens it, and so drowns out the crackling the fire makes when the head of his mother appears in it.

"And a very good morning to you too."

George nearly jumps out of his chair. "Mum, I hadn’t heard you… arrive," he says, folding the paper back up. He will be saving that for later, as he does not have any plans for the day anyway.

"I was wondering about your plans for Christmas, and if we’ll be seeing you this year," his mother says carefully.

George chokes. He knows exactly why she is being so careful. This will be their first Christmas without Fred.

"We’ll see, mum," he starts, "but I can’t make any promises." He smiles uncomfortably, swallows past the lump in his throat and nervously rakes a hand through his hair. "I erm… we’ll see, okay?"

"Of course dear," Molly quickly says. "It’s all fine."

When the floo disconnects Fred lets out a breath he had not even realised he had been holding. Christmas at the Weasleys will be one big couple fest, and George is not sure if he is quite ready for that. To watch them together, love, touch, hold hands. He really only wants to take Fred, hold his hand; even just thinking about a possible plus one makes him feel nauseous with betrayal. He could not possibly take anybody else than Fred, could he?

*

Fred is not there yet when he opens his eyes, but it is okay. George came here with a mission today: he wants answers. First and foremostly to the question of why they cannot touch. It does not even need to be a real hug. Just hands, just for a little while.

There was no snow when he left, and there still is none when he returns. The mysteriousness of the place appeals to him in a way that he wants to peel off its layers one by one and discover all its well hidden secrets. He has always had a knack for that.

A loud thud and the breaking of glass coming from the café startles George to the point that when Fred arrives next to him, he has, once more, forgotten the one question he set out to ask.

As his brother halts besides him, not even a mere metre away, he copies George’s stand. Hands in the pockets of his trousers, legs spread just a little bit, staring off into the distance.

"I’ve been wondering about that place," George says, and Fred hums in approval. "It’s the only lit place around here."

Fred says nothing, just stands there next to him with that goofy, all-telling smile.

"I always think of going there, but whenever I take a step or two, you seem to appear." George pauses as another loud burst of sound comes from the open door of the place.

"Can we go there?" he finally decides to ask.

"Can we?" Fred answers in return.

"Can’t we?" George says.

Fred gives no answer and they stand together in total silence for a while until, somehow, George gets the uncomfortable feeling of morning approaching and decides it is time to press for one.

"How come you’re never answering any of my questions?" he asks, gaze firmly locked onto the lit house instead of brother. He does not want to know if Fred is smiling, or if that mysterious smile he loves as much as he hates it has disappeared by now. When he finally gets an answer it is one he was expecting, yet still finds himself oddly disappointed.

"I only have the answers you have, brother."

George huffs. However much he would like to start a discussion with Fred right now, he knows his efforts would be futile. Questions would be evaded, answers vague and untelling, and the whole thing would only lead to more frustration and bitterness on his part.

Maybe he should, though. Maybe he should just start that argument. Or at least try to. If that is the only way to make Fred realise how much George really needs him right now and how little he is giving, no matter how much of that little he already is giving.

His thoughts lead him, and before he knows it he sees the sun come up, the lights in the café go out and the familiar voice of his brother next to him telling him it is time to wake up.

*

George goes through the same routine he goes through each and every single morning. He wakes up, stares at the ceiling for a while trying to make sure he will never forget his times with Fred, as precious as they are now, lifts himself out of bed, makes his bed, showers, eats and spends his day working at the shop looking for reflections of himself that are just that little bit off, indicating he is not alone.

It is so very tiring, especially with Fred being the way he is now. He just wants to be with him, feel normal again, feel alive. Hold his hand as they talk about times past and futures that will never be, and the only thing Fred does is avoid questions.

It is all he does.

*

The song starts playing again and even though George is conscious, he refrains from opening his eyes just yet. It calms him greatly, the soft tones of the flute making small shivers run down his spine. He remembers Fred telling him he is supposed to know this song, but once again keeps drawing blanks. Not that it matters; it is a nice enough song to enjoy, no matter if he should recognise it or not, however familiar it may sound.

After a while of just lying on the somewhat too comfortable stones he starts to worry. Fred would have normally showed up by now. The sun is long gone, the café is once again full of life and the cold air makes his breath come out in tiny, white clouds. As he sits up his back gives a satisfied pop; he really must have been lyying there a while.

Minutes pass and by the time another hour has gone by George gets scared. Where is Fred? He stands up and looks around himself. The houses near him are all as dark and locked up as they have ever been and the road heading away from the café ends in nothingness.

"Fred?" he tries carefully, voice raised only a little, but when nobody answers, he raises it fully.

"FRED!"

Nothing. Fred is not there.

George’s breathing quickens. Fred cannot be gone. Not now, not after everything. He has to come, he has to be here. He turns, looks around him, sees nothing, turns again and looks more. As he slowly loses himself in a desperate attempt to stay calm and find his brother, a loud crash, followed by a loud laughing that almost sounds melodious to George’s ears, sounds from the café.

The café! George thinks of their conversation from the other night and recalls the answers he got from Fred.

"Yes," he says, "why can’t we?"

The laughing stops and as the song grows loud in the deserted street he starts walking. Eyes set on the house at the end of the road, he put his hands in his pockets and a firm determination in his step; he shall reach that café. For a minute he wonders if there will be others there, long lost family members, friends. His mind lingers on Severus Snape for a second and he shivers. What would he do if he were to walk into that man? What would he even say? Thank you for being an ass? He smiles to himself as he imagines the look on the face of his old professor. Not that it matters, really. All that matters is that Fred is there.

Hopefully.

Letting out a shaky breath George has to admit that the café does not look that much closer than it did when he started walking. Of course, it is hard to estimate a distance when it is dark, but an odd kind of worry creeps up George’s spine and will not let go. He quickens his pace, which is now close to jogging, but the strange sensation of something not being right does not go away.

He finally starts sprinting when he sees the first ray of light slowly peek over the horizon. It hits his eyes, forcing him to avert them and making him trip. He catches himself with his hands, does not waste time and pushes back up again, never losing speed. George is not sure what the café holds in store for him, he does not know if he will like it, hell! he does not even know if Fred will really be there, but for some unknown reason reaching that house before morning is the only thing on his mind.

The sun gets brighter, and by the time it has completely risen above the horizon George stops running. He rests his hands on his thighs and hangs his head, trying to calm his breathing. The longer he stands there and the higher the sun gets the harder it is for him to keep his eyes open. George yawns and stretches before rubbing one of his eyes with his palm. The café is clearly visible down the road. George blinks heavily. Down the road?

Before his eyes close a last time he looks down, and sees he has not moved forward by a single stone yet again.

*

George is silent when he wakes up. He does not talk to Fred, does not even look if he is there. When he opens the shop and his customers start flooding in, he keeps to the background. Today is not the day for small talk.

With the day staying relatively uneventful, he manages to call it an early night and closes Wheezes back up before the sun has even set. As he quietly walks up to and through the old door to his flat he hangs the keys next to the frame on the little iron hook, takes off his shirt, shoes, trousers and socks and crawls back into bed.

That night, George does not dream.

*

Days go by, and without dreams or Fred to keep George sane he slowly falls back into his old rhythm. Dishes stack, food goes left uneaten, and the only reason George still opens his shop every morning is because he does not want to let a last chance to see Fred again slip through his fingers. Maybe one day Fred will come back, and when he will, George knows it will be in Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

The last ones to leave at the end of another day of forced smiles and faked enthusiasm are a man and a woman. As George wishes them a safe journey home, holding open the door for them, he sees the man grab the woman’s hand and squeeze it softly before smiling at her with a look that speaks of moments shared and love lived. It takes every bit of willpower George still has left in his body not to slam the door of the shop in their faces.

"Would it really have been that hard to just reach out once, brother?"

They are the first words George has spoken to Fred since his disappearance. He hates himself for giving in, knowing full well he is merely talking to the empty walls and filled shelves of his shop. He had told himself not to talk to his brother for a while, not after what he did, but now that the words have started flowing it is as if he cannot stop anymore.

"Would it really have been that disastrous? Would it really have killed you to just hold my bloody hand?" He is screaming the words now, voice raw with regret and magic bouncing all over the place, making many a window of the shop shimmer and vibrate with tension.

"Why can’t you, Fred? Why can’t you just hold my hand?!"

"You tell me."

The voice comes as unexpectedly as it had the first time Fred had talked to him. George gasps. "Because of the Universe. It doesn’t… You said it was impossible."

"In your sleep, yes," Fred says.

George does not answer. So they cannot touch in his sleep, but during the day he cannot even look Fred in the eye without having him disappear, so what…

His eyes go wide as a breeze on the first floor has one of the curtains wave erratically, casting odd shadows on the floor.

"The veil," George whispers.

*

One would expect the Ministry of Magic to increase their security levels right after a war, but sadly, nothing is less true.

The perks of being a war-hero, George thinks as he makes his way from Kingsley's office back to one of the big fireplaces in the atrium of the Ministry.

It had not taken him long to convince Minister Shacklebolt to give him access to the Department of Mysteries. In fact, it had taken him no time at all. The Minister had agreed as soon as George had thrown the question on the table, or well, in this case Kingsley’s desk.

Not that George is complaining in any way, but he could almost smell the pity in his older friend’s answer and that does not sit well with him at all. He does not need pity, from anybody. Not even from Fred.

Just a little longer, brother, he thinks while he speaks the words to his flat and green flames take him away. Just a few more nights.

*

He wraps his jacket a little tighter around himself as he snuggles into the fur-lined collar. There is a young boy on the corner of the street selling the newspaper of the day as owls scoop down and, dropping a Knut or two, grab one from his hands. George tosses him a Knut himself and as he accepts the paper the boy hands him he hears him say: "A very Merry Christmas to you, Sir."

George smiles. It has been too long since the world felt anything like close to normal, and even though it still does not, Christmas has a way of lifting everyone's spirits up a notch or two.

"Happy Christmas to you too, kid," he answers, winking. He sticks the newspaper between his arm and body, puts his gloved hands back into his pockets and makes his way over to one of the many decorated shops on Diagon Alley. There are three things on his ‘to-do’ list today. First he will make sure he buys all the right presents for the right people, including Fred. Then he will pay his brother a quick visit, and last but not least he will attend his family’s Christmas dinner later that day. When he had told his mother he would be coming over she had pretended not to be surprised, but to George the relief in her voice had been obvious.

This Christmas might not be so bad at all.

*

The Ministry is mostly empty when George enters. There is still the random Ministry worker, unlucky enough to have caught the Christmas shift here and there, but for the rest it is completely deserted.

He walks up to the hallway leading to the lifts and names the department he wants to go to. The doors of the lift make the loudest screeching noise, amplified by the echo of the hollow atrium, forcing George to cover his ears. When his father would take him to the Ministry on the odd Christmas night when he had to work when George was younger, it had always felt magical to him. Now, it feels rather creepy, as if the Ministry of Magic itself is in a deep slumber somehow.

As he steps out of the lift he remembers Kingsley’s directions and walks towards the door at the end of the hallway, waits until the room has stopped spinning and takes the third door to his right.

The first thing George notices when he pushes the door open is the absolute silence of the room. Not a single sound penetrates the thick stone walls, and even when he lets the door fall back into its lock it sounds muted, as if somebody had covered it with a thick pillow.

In the middle of the room stands the arch, giant and majestic, with a thick, almost smoke-like curtain hanging from it. An invisible wind is slowly moving it back and forth, leaving small vapours of the veil hanging absolutely still in the air before slowly evaporating into nothingness. George’s breath hitches as he moves closer and hears a very familiar tune coming from inside the arch. A shiver runs down his spine as it gets louder and is now joined by a few very familiar yet unknown voices.

"Fred?" he tries, but gets no answer.

The murmuring stops the moment George steps onto the plateau in the middle of the room, leaving only the sad tones of the flute as his lonely company. He stands in front of the misty curtain, currents of steam and wind gently touching his face. He closes his eyes as a breeze combs through his hair, making goosebumps stand up all over his neck and arms.

"Fred!" His heart skips a beat as he finally sees the face of his brother appear in the ghostly substance of the veil. It is only a shimmer, parts of a broken image, vague and incomplete, but he would recognise his brother anywhere. Fred gives him a cheeky grin and waves, going in and out of focus, parts of him disappearing and recurring as the curtain moves back and forth.

George shakes his head in frustration and angrily wipes at the tears running down his cheeks as he sees his brother stretch out his hand towards him. For a moment he takes a step back, emotional, grateful and a little overwhelmed. He is almost disbelieving of what is really happening, almost expecting that it is all a joke, a figment of his imagination, but when he sees Fred, sees his smile, his outstretched hand and familiar brown eyes, his doubts wash away completely.

He tries to talk, but chokes on his words, and reaches for his brother. Their fingers link and as George steps behind the curtain, the music stops.

*

The world is dark. There is no light, no music, no road leading to nowhere surrounded by dark houses. There is no chattering, no café, no cheerful singing in the dead of the night, no beautiful sunrise, no Fred.

George is alone, and as he thinks back to his reflections, his conversations, his nights, he realises that he never followed his brother. He followed a dream.

~Fin

[FIC] Follow Your Dreams - 1/2

lordes — Tue, 04 Feb 2014 22:18:10 GMT

Title: Follow Your Dreams
Author: lordes
Character(s): George Weasley, Fred Weasley
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Canonical character death, non-canonical character death, dealing with the loss of a twin, strong emotions, depression, implied suicidal thoughts.
Wordcount: 12300
Summary: After Fred’s death, George loses his will to live. Nothing seems important anymore until he has a dream. A dream about Fred. They start ‘meeting’ more frequently and George seems to have come back from the dead. Until a worse fate befalls him.
AO3: FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS
Author’s notes: Without masterde this piece would’ve never been written. He was my bunny, even though he might not have realised it. So thank you for that, Pup. Also, thanks to queeniemab for all her patience with me and for lordhellebore for the fantastic beta read. ♥

This piece was originally written for hp_darkarts' Shadow of the Season fest and originally posted HERE.

George feels as if he is dreaming.

People are moving around him: searching for loved ones, cleaning up the rubble to make way for more, carrying bodies or seeking comfort in the arms of others. George needs none of those things. He has already found what he was looking for, what he had been fearing, lying on the cold, hard floor of the Great Hall, surrounded by his family. He has found it in the now empty brown eyes of his brother.

His mother grabs one of Fred’s hands and presses it against her cheek. He sees her cry. His father is draped around her back, also crying, trying to comfort her. George looks at his other siblings and notices they are all equally devastated. Charlie is softly petting Fred’s head, Ron and Ginny are hugging each other tightly, looking down at their older brother. Bill is standing on the opposite side of him, shaking his head as Percy grabs his hand and squeezes it softly.

George carefully touches his own cheek. It is dry. He reaches up with his other hand and touches the other and moves up to his eyes; he is not crying. He wonders if he should be. The soft wailing of his mother has him drop his hands again. She says something, first to Fred and then to his father. As Bill crouches down in front of her, he sees her say something to him too.

He looks around. In the middle of the hall Remus and Tonks are lying on the ground, further down there is a student he recognises from his own year, but whose name he cannot remember. Like with Fred, his family is draped around him. He cannot see if any of them is crying or not, but he assumes they are. After all; his family is, too. There is some tumult behind him. He turns around and sees Harry angrily talking to Professor Mcgonagall; behind him, the limp body of Severus Snape is hovering in the air.

He smiles. There is no doubt about it, he really must be dreaming. After all, there is no way his twin brother is dead. He simply cannot be.

He shakes off the hand that grabs his wrist as he is about to walk away, not even bothering to look who it is, and makes his way out of the Great Hall. As he turns the corner towards the staircase, he is vaguely aware of Bill calling after him.

*

Kingsley’s face is drawn, his frown lines more prominent than before as he talks to them. George hears him say that he is very sorry for their loss, but that it is no reason for them to let their guard down. George wonders how anybody could have named him the new Minister of Magic, as he is obviously unable to tell the living from the dead. They have lost nobody, and any moment now the door to the Burrow will open and Fred will walk in with the same goofy smile on his face he always has, and life will continue as it has always been. Nothing has changed.

However, George is very willing to believe that the war is not over yet, so at least Kingsley is right about one thing: they should be careful. What if somebody were to die? That would be horrible.

After Kingsley explained everything and is done talking, George takes it upon himself to stand up and thank him for his time. After all, it is the polite thing to do. Kingsley has come all this way just to tell them to be careful. He is a good man. As George is shaking the Minister's hand, he sees the strange looks he is getting from his family. His parents seem confused, Charlie's face is scrunched up in anger. He turns back to Kingsley and notices the shocked expression on his face, too. George does not understand, what is wrong? Bill comes over and lays his big hands on George’s smaller shoulders and guides him away, apologising to their friend while he does so. George lets Bill lead him away, too confused to ask anything. He sits when his brother tells him to, and stares after him as he walks off, back into the kitchen.

He looks around. Bill guided him into the Burrow’s sitting room, a room he should be very familiar with, but one he barely recognises anymore. The clock indicating where every member of the family is is still hanging on the wall, but it seems to be broken. Since the last time he was here the pointers have not moved from their place, letting them all know they were in mortal danger. However, Fred’s seems to be missing. He gets up and moves towards the clock to give it a closer look. How odd. It feels smooth as he traces his own pointer with his finger and slowly pulls it away from the rest, lets it go and watches as it rotates back. He moves the other pointers around, doing the same with every single one of them, but Fred’s does not appear.

*

His mother has sent him to his and Fred’s place to pick up some clothes. He had not understood her when she had told him what kind of clothes she was expecting him to bring back, but apparently and according to her, right now he does not need to.

Their place seems awfully quiet as he walks through their rooms, looking for the things he needs to pack. Bill is following him closely, something else he does not quite understand yet. He had tried asking him why he had come, after all his house was only a floo away, and Bill had answered that it was for safety precautions. Something tells George his brother is not being honest with him, but he waves that feeling off for now.

They had decided that it would be for the best if nobody were to live alone for now, and with Fred still missing George had agreed on temporarily moving back in with his parents. He agreed with them on the topic of safety, and wandering around in a Death Eater infested world has never been a good idea.

The clock chimes three times as he packs his last pair of jeans and an extra jacket, and he is about to make his way over to the Floo when he remembers something. He puts down his bag again and tells Bill he needs to check on Weasley Wizard Wheezes, since Fred might be there. His brother gives him a look of pure pain, walks over and engulfs George in one of the tightest hugs anybody has ever given him. He goes with it, as Bill obviously needs it. When tears start to wet his shirt he hugs his big brother back and waits for it to pass.

*

George finds it strange that nobody is bringing up Fred, nor his absence. Is nobody missing him, then? He has been at his parents’ place for about a week now, and every single time he tries bringing up the topic of searching for his twin brother, people give him a pained or confused look. Sometimes they start crying, other times they will shoot him an angry stare and in very rare cases, George will get hugged.

He is also strangely excused from any Order work. A very odd occurance, as the members mainly gather in his parents’ house. Whenever he will try and help, somebody will usually tell him there is nothing to help with, yet new members are gathered each day. George is getting desperate. So far, there has been no sign of Fred, and he is starting to get really worried. Nobody is talking to him about it, and because he is not included in any Order meetings anymore, he is not getting any wiser. He wants to know what is going on, and he wants to know it now.

He manages to corner his mother in the kitchen, who, up until then and for some unknown reason, has been unwilling to talk to him, and who is busy making dinner, probably for all the Order members that will be coming over tonight. However, instead of giving him the answers he is looking for, she simply cups his face and plants a big, sloppy kiss on his forehead. She says his name, tells him dinner will be ready in a bit and sends him off again.

There are no Order members that evening, only his mother, his father, Bill, Fleur, Charlie, Ron, Hermione, Harry, Ginny and him, all gathered around the table, all eating in complete silence. George has the nagging feeling something is not right, but does not dare to ask in case he gets another angry glare or disapproving comment. Instead, he eats his food without speaking a single word, like the rest of them, and when he is finished, he gets up and leaves.

He gets halfway up the stairs when he realises there is nothing for him up there and decides to go for a walk. The outside May air is warm but fresh, a single breeze softly moving through his hair and clothes. He walks around the house and finds a comfortable spot to sit and wait for the stars to come out. They had done that a lot when they were younger, Fred and he, and again he wonders where his brother could possibly be. Maybe he will turn up tomorrow; his mother has been talking about this big event coming up they all have to attend. Maybe that is why they are all so sad. Maybe they do not want to go without Fred.

*

George is gasping for air, his legs feel like jelly and his chest like it were about to explode. He lets himself fall to his knees, wrenches off his tie, trying to let more air through. This cannot be happening, this cannot be true! However, even as he is thinking it, memories from the Great Hall come flooding back in. He starts shaking his head, the tears wetting his face and shirt as he begins sobbing uncontrollably. Everything makes sense now: his parents’ behaviour, his friends, the speech Minister Shacklebolt had given, why they had not wanted him to be alone, Fred’s absence.

The chest he saw his other half lie in is now slowly being lowered into the ground by two Aurors. It is made of a dark mahogany with a rounded top, decorated with the engraving of a tree. Its branches glow in the light of the setting sun, magic shimmering off them in green, purple and orange colours. George wants to yell at them, tell them to stop, tell them it was all a big mistake, but he cannot. He can no longer deny what happened. Fred is gone.

Two strong arms embrace him in a tight hug and slowly lift him off the ground, giving him the chance to get his legs under himself again, and walk him away from the scene. He looks up and through his tears sees Bill. Good old Bill, always there for him to catch him when he will fall, always there to pick him back up. George throws his arms around his big brother and hugs him back, crying as if his life depended on it, and maybe it does. His heart feels as if it was beating a beat too many and yet too few at the same time. He feels sick, he feels like he is about to throw up, but the only thing that he is able to do is cry. Still clinging to his brother, he feels himself being picked up from the floor and, as he wraps his legs around Bill, carried away.

He is not able to hear the people who try to talk to him, the only sound in his ears being the beating of his heart and a persistent ringing. He feels dizzy. Bill had sat him down on a couch in the living room of the Burrow and had made him tea; tea that has now gone cold in the cup in his hands. He looks down at it, the brown liquid oddly fascinating. Or maybe it is just his brain, incapable of comprehending what is really happening.

A hand settles on his shoulder and he raises his head to see Harry stare down at him, a worried look on his face. He sees Harry speak, but the words do not register. He shakes his head to get rid of the ringing sound, which Harry seems to take as an answer as he nods, pats him on the shoulder twice and walks away.

George does not care.

*

People are fussing over him and he does not like it; he wants to be alone. Whenever he will move through the house and walks into a room already inhabited by others, he will turn around and find a spot to himself. People mean talking, talking means listening, and listening is something he simply cannot do right now. He does not care. He does not care for others, their pains or their losses. All he cares for right now is his.

His mother is fussing over him, too, telling him he needs to eat and sleep properly, but George does not care about that, either. He cannot sleep even if he wanted to, which he does not, the nightmares of him failing to save his brother forever haunting him at night. So he stays awake, but when he does sleep, they are short naps that George suspects to be more like blackouts. Dreamless, short and relieving.

That, and with the constant pressure of his family looming over him, George decides to move back into their flat, the flat that is now only his. He should probably just sell it. Why would he want to live in an place filled with things that remind him of the one thing he wants, but cannot have? However, selling it seems impossible. Every attempt he makes fails, and George realises that deep down inside he does not want to get rid of the place after all. So he gets comfortable again, unpacks all his things once more and stacks them away neatly.

He looks around and smiles. It is not a full smile and it certainly does not reach his eyes, but it is a smile nonetheless. The flat is tidy, and Fred’s things are neatly stashed away in a box on the attic. He misses his brother, but he is ready to move on.

Until he sees his brother smile back at him. Until he sees himself in the mirror.

*

June hits, and as the days get longer, so do his nights. Sleep turns into a rare occurrence, and except for the occasional blackout he has, he does not get much rest at all. Dragging himself out of bed after another sleepless night, George shuffles slowly into the kitchen. It is a mess. There are cups stacked so high the window is barely even visible anymore. He reaches out and grabs one of the used ones, sniffs it, wrinkles his nose at the smell and gives it a quick rinse. As he turns the kettle on for some tea, he notices the lack of plates on the counter and wonders if he should eat something. Or shave. He lets his fingers trace where his chin once was, but there is only a big bush of hair. However, as shaving means being bothered with his looks and as he is not bothered by it at all, he will leave it be. The less of a resemblance he bears to his brother, the better.

As he sits and sips his tea from the scalding cup, he wonders what the day will have in store for him, or rather, whom. Not a day goes by without somebody visiting him, always using a different excuse, always lying. They really must think him senile if they think he is believing their words. He scoffs and puts his cup down to look at the newly formed blister on his hand. He wonders where he could have got it, then remembers the kettle he picked up from the stove earlier. The soft armchair he is sitting in gives a squeak as he leans back and sighs.

The world outside is bright and busy, people hurrying past each other in order to get to their destinations, not sparing each other as much as a second look. It has its perks, living above a shop in Diagon Alley, but right now it is only bothersome. George does not want any of those people outside, he does not need them. He does not need to see them, he does not need to hear them, he does not need anything from them. Angry, he gets up to close his curtains and knocks the side table, with his cup of tea on it, over in the process, burning his leg. He looks at it, astonished and frozen, and observes how the colour of his skin slowly turns from a pale pink into a bright red. The pain registers, but George does not act on it right away. He lets go of the curtain first, still firmly clenched in his fist, and lets himself softly fall on the ground before stretching out the burnt leg. When he hovers his hand above the burnt spot he winces, the warmth that is radiating off his hand irritating to the sensitive skin. He chokes back a sob as a single tear rolls down his cheek. Wiping it in frustration, George takes a deep breath and slaps his hand down as hard as he can.

Eyes wide and back arched, George screams. He screams until there is no air left in his lungs and even then he does not stop. He lets himself fall back on the ground, his leg bent, his hand still on the burn, nails digging in harder and deeper. His face scrunches up in pain as he feels his skin break and a trickle of blood run down his leg. He has no more energy to scream, but that is okay. As much as it hurts, George basks in it. He breathes in and out heavily a couple of times, relaxing his hand a bit before biting back another scream as he rakes his nails down over the burn once again.

His skin broken and hand bloody, and with him still lying on the ground, George finally relaxes his hand and lets it rest next to his face. As he does so a choked sob escapes his throat, then another. He tries to keep them back, hold it in. He does not want to feel it, not now, not today, not yet, but he cannot. When the tears start flowing, George can no longer hold on and gives in to sobbing.

*

The fabric of his pyjamas clings to the blood on his leg as George makes his way down the stairs. He is limping and tries to be careful, but cannot prevent himself from tripping once he pushes the door that leads into Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes open. Managing to land on his undamaged knee, he grabs the corner of the counter and pulls himself back up.

The shop is dark and dusty, almost unrecognisably so. Shelf after shelf are either emptied or grey, covered in cobwebs and dust bunnies. George walks over to one of them and picks up one of the long forgotten Love Potions. As he slowly pulls off the many webs and wipes away the dust, the liquid contents of the bottle slowly start shining again. He holds it closer to his face, examining what feels like an old friend, the pink light from deep within reflecting off his face. He puts the now warm bottle back down, and as it clinks and touches the bottle next to it, that one starts shining, too, creating a domino effect. Soon the whole shop is shining, buzzing and twirling once again.

George turns and finds his reflection in the mirror look back at him. Beard rough, hair long and messy, tangled at the ends and greasy on top, pyjamas dirty with blood and other filth, dressing gown open at the seams where the stitches have given out. He sighs and walks over to the mirror, realising he and the shop are not that different at all.

*

He shakily rakes his hand through his hair before picking up the shaving blade. The metal feels odd in his hand, and he wonders if shaving is a skill one can forget how to practise. With his beard foamed up with shaving cream, George puts the sharp edge of the blade on his cheek and slides it down.
One stroke after another, George's face starts appearing again and when he is done, he carefully tries a smile. It is watery and does not quite resemble him just yet. He decides he should probably get a haircut as well.
*
With his leg properly bandaged, the walk down into Weasley's Wizard Wheezes is a lot easier. He manages to get down the stairs and into the shop without tripping, and even though there is a firm limp present, he is no longer in danger of falling unexpectedly.
When George opens the back door he takes a deep breath. Even below the thick layer of dust the old scent of the shop is still very pertinent, filling him with long forgotten memories and unexpected feelings of nostalgia. He rolls up his sleeves, whips out his wand and starts cleaning.
The dust proves to be harder to get rid of than George initially anticipated, and by the time most of it has disappeared off the shelves, it has instead appeared on George.
"Can you believe it, Fred," he asks, mostly to himself, and shakes his head in amusement, "Weasley's Wizard Wheezes is actually starting to look like a shop again."
The bottle he was holding breaks as it drops to the floor, splinters of glass flying across the room, the green liquid in it slowly soaking George's shoes as a familiar voice answers him.
"I can't believe you let it get this dirty in the first place, brother dear."
George does not dare turn. He does not dare look, afraid that he is dreaming, afraid that nothing will be there, afraid he is imagining it.

The eerie silence that follows is so maddening that George finally turns and looks around - nothing. He walks up one of the stairs and checks the upper level of the shop which also turns out to be empty. A sigh escapes him and his shoulders slump a little. He folds the cloth he had been cleaning with and puts it on the balustrade in front of him. As he rests both hands on it, one on the cloth, he drops his head and just stands there for a while, breathing in the fresh smell of citrus and lime. The answer he got, so obviously in the voice of his brother, so familiar to his ears, had it merely been his imagination?

"Fred…" His voice is soft, almost like a moan.

His shoulders go stiff and he scrunches his eyes shut, waiting, expecting his brother to answer him once again, but nothing comes. Angry with sorrow and regret, he fists the cloth and throws it over the balustrade. The sound it makes when it hits the floor is almost too soft to notice, but still too loud in the deadly silence of the shop. George screams. He screams as loud and as long as his lungs enable him to. Turning around, he slides his arms over the freshly cleaned shelves, clearing it of every single item on it. The glass crunches under his feet while several now unidentifiable liquids soak his shoes and socks. After the first shelf is completely empty he moves to a second, and then a third. Magical birds start flying around the shop in panic, while fumes move and float around, forming one random shape after the other before evaporating into thin air. George jumps to reach a higher shelf and pulls it, including its bottles, bowls and spheres, down on himself. He does not want to see it anymore, does not want to smell it, does not even want to remember it exists.

As he turns around frantically, looking for more shelves to pull down and clear and bottles to break, he spots an untouched sphere on the top step of the stairs. Letting himself fall onto his knees he crawls towards it, not even noticing the cuts the broken glass is leaving on his legs and palms. He reaches out for the sphere, purple, green and orange magic softly floating around inside of it, and closes his hand around it. The one thing that reminds him so harshly of what he can no longer have, no matter how hard he tries to imagine, no matter how much he wishes, no matter what he does. He raises his arm, ready to smash it back down and break the last still unbroken Weasley product within his reach, but he catches a glimpse of himself in the long and elegant mirror on the wall before he is able to bring his arm down completely. The mirror is tall, at least twice the size of the average wizard, if not more, and at least five feet wide.

The colours of the sphere still in his hand take turns, appearing on a somewhat too familiar face, reflecting in the dark brown eyes and off the pale skin. Purple, green, and orange; the colours of the funeral, the colours of Fred. George’s breath hitches as the eyes in the mirror stare back at him, surprise as evident in them as they are probably in his own. He tries to crawl over to the mirror, slipping and sliding on the wet floor as he does, but to no avail. The moment he gets close enough to touch the cold, hard surface he sees nobody but himself.

"No. No," he says, shaking his head in disbelief. "No, no, no, no, no. You were just here. You were just here!"

George starts clawing at the mirror, panic rising in his throat. He had seen him. He had seen his brother. He knows he was right. "I saw you! I SAW YOU! You can’t be gone now. Fred. Fred! Come on, come back!"

As he lets his hand slide down, he looks at his mirror image. His clothes are a mess, and hair is standing up on one side while on the other there is something blue dripping from the ends of his hair on his shoulder. He looks at it in the mirror and moves his hand through it; it feels warm, somehow, and a little bit sticky. He wonders what it could have been, or which potions have mixed together to have made this odd substance. He shakes his head and, focussing his attention back on the rest of him, he notices the state of the shop in the background. He turns and groans. If this is what Fred saw earlier, it is no miracle he has left. He must have been so very disappointed.

Look at it. He thinks. Look at yourself for Merlin’s sake. He groans, sits back against the thick wooden frame of the mirror and rubs his hands roughly over his face a few times. What had he done?

*

June turns into July, summer into fall, and by the time the first snowflakes start falling George is a changed man. The shelves in Weasleys Wizard Wheezes have been restocked and the shop has been reopened. Once again every corner in the place is filled with people and buzzing with life. George leans over the somewhat too familiar balustrade on the first floor and looks down in content at the aura of happiness that is emitted by the crowd down below. This is how it is supposed to be, this is how Fred had wanted it. This is where he is needed most. As he stretches his back with a satisfied smile, he glances at the mirror he had first seen his brother appear in. Fred is there, smiling back at him, which fills his heart with joy.

After the first encounter, George had started seeing Fred in most mirror images, windows and reflections. Never able to come close, it had driven him insane, resulting in many a smashed surface. But after a while filled with clawing, smashing, more screaming and destruction, George had been too tired to keep on fighting and had decided to accept what was given to him instead of struggling to get more. It had brought him peace, because wherever he goes these days, he can count on Fred being there with him. He is no longer alone, no longer feels the need to hide. So he had decided, on a gloomy autumn afternoon, to pick up the pieces that was his shop and start living his life again.

Because with Fred at his side, anything is possible.

He sees his brother wave at him from the mirror and waves back. Or maybe it was him who started waving and Fred who waved back. It does not matter to George. They are together now, two pieces of one soul, reunited once more.

It is no lie that even George has accepted the way they have been brought together; the urge to run to his other half has not subsided in the least. Not a day goes by without the yearning to talk, to see, to touch ripping his heart into pieces. It is a fate of the damned, yet a fate of the blessed, to be able to see what they want most, yet unable to truly have it back. It is temptation at its finest, torture of the highest degree, but he wouldn’t trade for the world.

As George turns to make his way downstairs he sees Fred wink once before he, too, turns and disappears from the mirror. It is time to socialise, talk to his customers and maybe even sell an extra love potion or two. As important it is in times like these to keep a watchful eye, it is as important not to forget the power of love and the warmth that it brings, as George has experienced first hand these past months. Even through something as small as a watchful eye. He moves down the stairs and his twin moves with him in the reflection of the windows adorning the eastern wall of the shop. The steps creak under his feet and the yearning to look grows, but he knows he is too close for it to work. He knows, might he look, there would only be himself. An odd reflection of a version of a person he thinks he knows, but who is not quite right. He will get lost in his own eyes, waiting for them to change into the ever loving ones of his brother, knowing they never will, but hopeful that if only he were to wait long enough, Fred would come back.

A black messy mop of hair moves in the corner of his eye, followed closely by a fiery red ponytail. He knows without looking who they are, glued to each other’s side since the demise of Voldemort, inseparable. George understands, he understands like no other, having the other half of your soul so close, yet feeling they are so vulnerable you never want to let go of them, never want to lose sight of their being. Yes, George knows this feeling all too well. As he looks he sees them admiring one of the Pigmy Puffs. Ginny always loved those, even when they had just opened the shop. Even now she is happily picking up one after the other, letting it hop from hand to finger and back before picking up another one in an even brighter colour. As his eyes move from her to Harry he notices their hands and fingers are tightly entwined, knuckles almost white.

George’s heart clenches painfully at the sight. The desperation in their grip is evident, the support they give each other only assumable. What he would not give to have that feeling once again. He squeezes his own hand tightly into a fist as the jealousy soars through him. It is not fair. It has never been fair. He turns and leaves, bitterness obvious in his frown.

*

The first thing he sees as he opens his eyes are the bricks he is standing on. They are a dark red, tanned by the sun, rough and rounded at the edges. Not one stone is the same as the other and, as he looks up, they seem to go on forever. He is standing on a road with dark houses on each side of it, except for a single lit house all the way at the end. A loud chattering and singing is coming out of it, and it seems to give off a warm and welcoming aura. As he starts walking towards the brightly lit house, which George can only assume is some sort of café, judging by the sounds that it is emitting, he feels his stomach do a backflip. Something is missing. He turns and notices his reflection in one of the dark windows and realises what it is he is missing. The reflection staring back at him is no other than himself. Sadness washes over him as he takes a couple of steps in the direction of the window. Over the past months he has got so used to his brother being there with him that not having him makes him feel like he has lost Fred all over again.

"I’m right here, brother," a familiar voice sounds from behind.

George turns, spinning so fast he feels a bit dizzy for a second or two. But there he stands, right in front of him: Fred. George gapes - his brother is really there, wherever there might be. He shakes his head once, opens his eyes and, when he sees Fred still standing right in front of him, shakes it again.

"Fred…" His voice is nothing more than a soft whimper as he starts walking towards him. It does not take long for his steps to turn into running, and before he knows it George is sprinting towards his long lost half.

"Brother, brother stop," Fred insists, and when George finally complies he notices he has not moved forward by a single stone on the road.

"Wha-"

"The rules of the Universe," Fred says, "dictate we can meet, but not yet touch." He spreads his arms slowly. "But this, isn’t this enough?"

George does not answer. He does not know what he could even reply with. Doubt fogs his mind just as the hope of no longer being alone fills his heart, making him feel dizzy. He wants to scream at Fred for leaving him, wants to beg for forgiveness for not being there for him when he needed him most, wants to curl around him and never let go. He wants all of those things, all of them at the same time. For a minute George grows insecure; is this really better than not having Fred at all? Having him but not really having him?

"I’ve missed you, you know," Fred says then, interrupting his thoughts. "It’s not the same without having you around."

All he can do is stare. It really is not the same, he agrees, but does he really need to tell his brother this? They both know it. And acknowledging this would only…

"Is this real?" he manages to choke out.

Fred only smiles. It is a kind and warm smile, but there is more to it. Pity, maybe, George cannot tell for sure. "You’re not the first person to ask," Fred says, "but does it really matter?"

PART 2

Huh

lordes — Sun, 26 Jan 2014 18:22:35 GMT

What do people do with their lives after finishing "Turn"?

I wonder...

Things

lordes — Wed, 22 Jan 2014 08:41:29 GMT

That love meme! I don't know who you are or who put me on there but I'm just sitting here, staring at my screen, being all baffled. ♥ Thank you!

Also, TURN is eating my life. I cannot do anything else but read all its 1129 pages. I'm on 360 now. Damn.

I blame mab

NAMECHANGE

lordes — Wed, 08 Jan 2014 16:20:40 GMT

After getting another 700(!!!) spam notifications from eljay today I was done. I loved my username (dawnlett) and I probably always will, but the immensly full inbox was not worth the name.

So I changed it (urgh, again). Lordes is a character from a book I read when I was a kid, and I always loved her. It'll have to do. It's short, easy to remember and if you misread it is says Lord-es, so that's kind of cool imho.

Anyway, not to worry! I've not gone anywhere. It's just me (dawnlett).

SORRY!

♥