The Boy Who Lived

Reasons for Rogue Magic

'A Black, Master Harry,' he whispered with a disturbing and grotesque wink. Draco was grateful they were allowed to eat in the kitchen and weren't being made to eat in the dining room under the watchful eyes of previous generations of the Black family.

'Teddy is a Black too,' Harry said calmly with a raised eyebrow.

'Yes, Master Harry, yes,' the ancient elf bowed but clearly didn't appreciated the reminder.

Afterwards, they played a board game with Teddy and then it was his bath time and Draco sat in on story time too.

Draco liked it, he liked the homeliness of it all, even when it was just him and Harry sitting reading into the evening. Though he sensed Harry was still on edge and he felt rather morose too. As the evening progressed, he fell into deeper melancholy and the silences lengthened.

'Harry, I got into my Gringotts account today, thank you. I managed to do a bit of shopping and I decided I should pay you rent. It's only fair.'

'Don't be daft, Draco. I'm helping you out, as a friend.'

'At least let me contribute...'

'Draco, you've been through enough shit in the last twenty-four hours to not need to worry about the small stuff, we'll sort it out later.'

'I feel like I'm taking advantage of you.'

'You're clearly not, it's me who's doing the offering,' Harry said in a voice not to be argued with. 'I just want you to be okay...'

'Don't, Harry. Don't pity me. That's the worst thing anyone can do. It makes me feel so weak.'

Harry moved to sit next to him on the sofa and seemed almost tentative in the way he carefully reached out and took his hand, holding it so carefully. Draco ignored the shivers that ran across his skin at Harry's touch.

'Draco, I don't think you're weak. You're dealing with what could have been a fatal attack on you, and, as always, you're trying to deal with it by yourself, you always try to do it alone. Your conversation with Nev earlier is a point in hand. Just let me help.'

'You're already doing too much, not just for me, but Teddy, work...'

'And? I want to help; I don't like seeing you being victimised.'

'You should be rejoicing in it,' Draco muttered.

'Why on earth would I rejoice in this?'

'Because I'm Draco Lucius Malfoy, the boy who made your life living hell for six years.'

'You give yourself too much credit,' Harry scoffed. 'You weren't anywhere on a par with Voldemort. Or my once-a-year visit with the Dursleys, for that matter. And then there was Snape, he was scrawny little spitfuck towards me, though not quite as bad as Umbridge. And then there was Quirrell. And Lockhart. Peter Pettigrew tried hard too. Oh yes, and Barty Crouch Jnr. Several Ministers of Magic were a minor annoyance. The Daily Prophet and Rita Skeeter had a good go at making my life a misery for a number of years, and dying in May 1998 was a major pantstain, do I need to continue? So, Draco Lucius Malfoy, yes, you were a nuisance at school but I dealt with worse. Besides, with you, I always gave as good as I got so we're even.'

Draco's lips were drawn into a thin line of seriousness. 'Can I ask about the scars, on your back... sorry, that's too personal. I shouldn't ask.'

Harry looked at him, his eyes denying a glimpse of emotion. He said flatly, 'my back is from where my uncle took his belt to me on my twelfth birthday...'

'Why?' Draco gasped, horrified.

'The jury is still out on his actual reasoning. I think he blamed me for his own shortcomings. He's in a Muggle prison now for historical abuse both towards me and his wife as well as thumping a policewoman. The scars on the back of my hand, which I know you've seen but are too polite to ask about, are the results of a series of detentions with Umbridge. She possessed a Black Quill, a dark artifact on the "banned" list. She is, I'm glad to say, in Azkaban for life for both her crimes at Hogwarts and for Crimes against Muggleborns. One of many court cases I attended after the war.'