Ministry Chambers - 2002
Harry knocked on the door of Kingsley's office, entered at his command and took a seat on the other side of the desk.
He was used to the silences by now. Kingsley only began when he was ready, the stress of taking on the role post-war had withered him down a fair bit, and the times for pleasant greetings had passed.
"Harry," he finally spoke, his eyes remaining fixed on whatever document he was writing on, "I noticed your name was still down on the list of those willing to rehouse war convicts?"
"Yes." Harry answered, but the silence drove him to elaborate, "I believe everyone deserves a second chance, most people anyway."
"It's worked out for you so far?"
"It's been manageable. The first lad I had wasn't much older than me, was dragged into Voldemort's army by his brother against his will, he returned to his parent's house once his sentence was finished."
"And the other one?"
"A witch in her mid-fifties. Bit of a loose cannon but she ended up in St. Mungo's with a hereditary disease anyway. That was four months ago, it's just been me in the house since then."
"I see," Kingsley said, nodding slowly. The silences during conversations often made Harry concerned, it usually meant unsatisfactory news was about to be delivered. "We have another one for you."
"Right..."
"Young man, early-twenties, ex-death eater, nothing you haven't handled before. His involvement with the Dark Lord was questionable and in court proven innocent under the grounds of entrapment and underage coercion, but I shouldn't need to explain this, I know you're all too familiar with this particular case."
He handed the document across the desk to Harry, and Harry, almost refusing to look down at the paper, had a feeling he knew what was coming.
Draco Malfoy.
"You are joking?"
"He has finished his post-sentence service and though he was placed under supervision of one of our senior ministry aids, circumstances have changed, hence he now requires a new place to live for the next 18 months. Should he endure that length of time with no further convictions, he will be granted freedom."
"18 months?! I only had the other two for less than half a year."
"18 months minimum. On grounds of regular check-ins from the Ministry and conformance with the terms of his release."
"There's nobody else you can give me?"
Kingsley's gaze flicked up from his papers, less than impressed. "Remind me, Harry, what you said about everyone deserving a second chance?"
Harry frowned, biting his tongue. He pushed back from his chair and began slowly pacing the room, processing it all.
"You know as well as I, that a vast number of those who joined Voldemorts' numbers did so under the imperius and cruciatus curse, others were forced due to threats against loved ones and livelihood."
"I know, I know," Harry sighed, recalling how divided the Wizarding world was after the war. Many people believed that anyone involved in Voldemort's army should have been sentenced to life in Azkaban, 'clean the streets of that filth!', they would chant.
Others, like Harry, understood the complications that brewed under the front of the Dark Lord, that a vast amount of people involved were doing so against their will. Hence a rehabilitation program was put in place, to allow those people more freedom, whilst still staying under a watchful eye.
Annoyingly, Harry did agree with Kingsley.
He'd been at the trial of Draco Malfoy himself, witnessing the breakdown of the boy who had no choice. He actually felt sorry for him, not that he often vocalised that.
"Did Malfoy have anything to say about this?"
"I'd assume he'd have some personal feelings but by now I expect he knows better than to voice his grievances with us." Kingsley responded, almost smirking as he peered over the rim of his glasses, "You're not going to kill each other, are you?"
"I can't promise anything."
"Just try."
Harry dropped his head back with a sigh, holding the curses through gritted teeth as if he was waiting for Kingsley to burst out in laughter telling him this was all a joke. No such luck. "When is he arriving then?"
"This afternoon, four o'clock."
"Merlin, a bit eager, are we?" Harry bit, crossing his arms in frustration. Kingsley ignored that comment. "Will I be subsidised for this?"
"We believe Mr Malfoy is already supporting himself financially. We requested that he provide you with enough to cover the costs of food and bills. He has agreed to this. Any other terms you can arrange between yourselves. Should you have any further queries you know where to find me, Harry."
"So that's it then? I go home tonight and spend eighteen months with none other than Draco sodding Malfoy."
"I'm afraid it is. I understand your distaste, however, he is a rather high-profile case and requires one of our best Aurors to keep him under observation should he show any signs of questionable behaviour or usage of dark magic. Better someone that works closely with me than sending him to live with an unknown civilian."
"Right." Harry uttered, defeated and bitter.
"Harry, I am sorry that I couldn't make the situation any better for you, but please know that I have been corresponding with Mr Malfoy since the start of his trial back in 1998, a lot has changed since then, he is a very broken young man."
"If you're expecting me to read him a bedtime story and tuck him in every night then you're in for a shock."
Another unamused glare from Kingsley. Harry pressed his lips together.
"You've got the afternoon off, Harry, to get yourselves acquainted at your house. I'm sure you two will settle your differences and get along just fine, give it time. Try to have a pleasant weekend won't you, I'll see you Monday morning."
"You too, Sir. I'll try." He didn't sound convincing.
Harry closed the door behind him and slumped back against it, rubbing his face. Draco Malfoy living in his house. He could've screamed, cursed, hexed the bloody walls off. Like he hadn't suffered enough since the war.
'I believe everyone deserves a second chance.'
Surely he was about to live to regret saying those words. Surely?
***
Harry was halfway through pouring his second glass of whiskey when the knock at the door came. He necked the entire thing in one. He needed it.
The door creaked open, and there he was.
Draco Malfoy, standing on the front doorstep with a tatty leather holdall in hand and a vacant expression, his eyes sad.
Harry noticed he'd matured significantly since Hogwarts, he supposed war trauma and time in Azkaban would do that to anyone, but in Harry's opinion, he'd annoyingly still aged like fine wine.
His hair had grown out more, still short at the back but much scruffier on top, messy strands of platinum hair hung over his forehead which accentuated his striking silver eyes. It bared a remarkable resemblance to Harry's own unruly bush of curls, only Malfoy's was straight. Long gone were the days of keeping it meticulously styled, though Harry preferred this more carefree look.
His jawline was sharper, his cheekbones more visible. He looked painfully slim, borderline ill. He'd always been pale but the darkness under his eyes and the sallowness of his cheeks suggested the years hadn't been kind to him.
He stood awkwardly in the doorway, wearing a navy jumper two sizes too big for him and slim black trousers that accentuated just how slender his legs were. Harry noticed the white canvas trainers on his feet, so embedded with dirt they'd turned a sort of greyish-brown colour and exactly the same style as the pair he owned too.
For a brief moment, Harry questioned whether it was even the same person standing before him. So used to seeing Malfoy in black tailored suits or meticulous robes with perfect hair and expensive jewellery, it was like looking at another version of him. Even the detestable sneer had vanished, instead replaced with the look of vulnerability.
Just like Harry, Malfoy was taken aback by the sudden maturity of The Boy Who Lived who was staring at him through the frames of his iconic round-framed glasses - that hadn't changed, the dark stubble and broader shoulders, however, were more recent developments.
"Malfoy." Harry bit. There was an awkward silence between them as Malfoy's gaze eventually pulled from the floor to Harry. "So glad you're here." He was visibly angry, his voice laced with malice.
Malfoy opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came. No quip, no sarcastic comment or hateful name, instead, he pressed his lips and slowly stepped inside, stopping at the threshold of the door. Harry stood back a little, widening the gap between them.
It felt utterly bizarre. In any other situation, Harry would've shut the door straight in his face. Now he had to physically welcome Malfoy in as a guest.
He wanted to slam his head against the wall.
He closed the door behind him and turned back to face Malfoy, still standing apprehensively in the hallway.
"So... this is my house." Harry began
"I gathered."
Harry scowled at him and Malfoy held his tongue, eyes darting to the floor like a schoolboy being told off. He knew Harry held an awful lot of power over him now, leaving him no longer in a place to argue.
"I... I appreciate you opening your home to me." Malfoy said, at barely a whisper. It caught Harry off guard. Malfoy being kind to him?
"Did they tell you to say that?"
"They might have done."
"I wouldn't put it past them," Harry exhaled, two minutes in and he was already finding it unbearable, "I'll show you to your room." Hopefully Malfoy would stay up there for the full eighteen months and leave him in peace.
Malfoy peered around at the house, getting a sense of the surroundings. The hallway where they stood was fairly open, with a wooden staircase running up the left-hand side and two doors on the right wall, which led to the kitchen and living room. The study was behind the stairs in a back room, facing out into the backyard.
It was quite dim, the wooden floors and burgundy wallpapered walls already made the hallway quite dark and the frosted glass on the front door prevented most of the natural light from coming in.
As Malfoy followed Harry up the stairs, he noticed rustic oil lamps on the walls dotted amongst the framed landscape paintings that lead up to the landing. The upper level was far brighter, a large paned window at the top of the stairs filled the landing with afternoon sunlight and the ripple of rays through the large oak tree directly outside reflected on the scarlet walls.
There were three rooms on the upper level, two bedrooms and a bathroom. The main bedroom, Harry's room, was on the left of the landing whilst the spare room was directly across from it on the right.
Malfoy gazed up with curious eyes as they emerged at the top of the stairs, taking in the small details of the house as he went, the black iron light fixtures on the walls, the tarnished door handles, the painting of Hogsmeade that hung on the wall between the two doors.
Harry took him into the room on the right and stood apprehensively by the window, watching as Malfoy emerged behind him, taking everything in.
It was a decently sized room, with dark wooden flooring and a rusty Persian rug in the centre. A double bed sat against the far wall with bedside tables on either side, a lampshade on one and a withered snake plant on the other.
A chest of drawers stood along the main wall beside a free-standing floor-length mirror and an old Bergere armchair in the corner. It was enough and certainly all he needed, not that Harry was willing to offer any more.
Malfoy steadied himself, unsure of what to say. The two of them stood in the centre of the room, quietly, peering around the space.
After another awkward silence, Harry pressed his lips and shrugged. "So... this is it, I guess. The bathroom's across the hall on the left. Not much else you need to know really."
"Right," Malfoy whispered. His chest sank, and another wave of sadness washed over him knowing he was stuck, unable to make his own choices or live the life he dreamt of. Beaten down by the world that refused to believe that he'd suffered enough.
"Listen, Malfoy," Harry exhaled and searched his mind for the right thing to say, "I feel like, given the situation we've now found ourselves in... maybe we should sit down and talk, settle our differences right now so that the next eighteen months are at least bearable."
Malfoy didn't answer. He nodded timidly.
"I'll be in the kitchen."
Another uncomfortable lingering moment passed between them before Harry hastily left, closing the door behind him. Malfoy didn't move, frozen where he stood listening to the sound of footsteps disappearing down the stairs. Everything felt overwhelming, as though he was waiting for the punch line, for someone to pop out and tell him it was all just a joke and that he could leave whenever he wanted.
He dropped his bag down on the floor and sat down on the edge of the bed, looking around the room he now found himself in. The melancholy churned in him, spreading like a dull ache down his spine. He hesitated, waiting for the feeling to ease, but it never did instead, it pulled him to the floor as though his feet were nailed to the spot.
Years of being tossed from place to place continued, shunned wherever he went, never having the chance to do what he wanted, always following orders and obeying commands despite how much it tore away at him. That was what happened to you when you were paying for your mistakes.
He thought things would settle after the war, blinded by the idea that his parents would protect him and use their status to keep him safe. He couldn't have been more wrong.
His mother and father were sentenced to life in Azkaban. Witnesses accused him of crimes he'd never committed, purely out of the loathing they had for him. He was used to the hate by now, he supposed it was karma for his behaviour in his youth. He'd gotten a taste of the real world and it was cruel.
He closed his eyes and felt the tears welling, eighteen months looming was suffocating him, he couldn't possibly see the end in sight, an overwhelming weight of emotions rendered him unable to process anything with clarity.
This was his life now.
***
Harry collapsed into the chair at the kitchen table and sighed, head in his hands. For a long time, he gazed out of the window, trying to rationalise and understand everything that was happening.
Was he frustrated at this sudden arrangement? Of course. Particularly having no say in the matter whatsoever and being expected to simply just agree to everything he was told. Draco Malfoy of all people could not have been a more horrific choice, which pondered him to question whether he'd done something horrible to deserve this sort of punishment.
His train of thought was broken when Malfoy quietly appeared in the doorway and hesitated at the sight of Harry, his lips twisting with a hint of uncertainty.
He kept his eyes down and slipped into a seat, sitting not quite opposite Harry, but just off to the side as Harry watched his every movement, waiting for the snarky, bitter Malfoy to crawl out from whatever shell he was hiding under.
The tension was excruciating. Harry glared across at Malfoy who looked surprisingly sheepish.
"You know I don't want you here." Harry bit. Draco looked up at him but remained quiet. "I can't exactly say I'm thrilled with this arrangement but Kingsley was optimistic that I was the best person to take you in so here we are."
Harry almost laughed he was so affronted. He shook his head and held his tongue, fighting the urge to spit venom.
"However," he sighed and brushed a hand through his mess of hair, "For the sake of my own sanity I think we should try to reach some form of civil ground. Do you agree?"
Malfoy sat staring emotionless into the table.
"Are you even listening to me?"
"Yes, I'm listening to you." Malfoy snapped, lips set in a thin line.
"Say something then."
Malfoy sighed and shrugged half-heartedly, at a loss as to what he was supposed to say. "I agree."
"Wow, you agree with me on something? You have changed." Harry said spitefully. He pushed himself up from the table and began to pace before leaning against the kitchen counter. Malfoy was looking down at his hands on the table edge, fiddling with the hem of his jumper.
"I don't want to argue with you, Malfoy, especially in my own house. I'm done with whatever petty drama we had as teenagers, fighting a war and losing loved ones gives you a bit of perspective, funnily enough."
Malfoy nodded subtly. He knew a thing or two about loss, maybe not in the same sense as Harry, but he sure enough felt the loss of his parents, his reputation, his dignity.
"We don't have to be friends," Harry continued, "We don't have to talk, or eat together or even be in the same room, I'd just prefer it if we weren't at each other's throats every minute of the day. This is my home, and your presence here is not going to hinder me from living my life."
"That's fine with me."
"I don't have much to say to you if I'm honest. You were vile to me and my friends in school, but you already know that. I'm... well, I'm not entirely sure what you went through during the war but I can't imagine it was pleasant. Regardless, I'm trying to enjoy my life now, I have a good job, a decent home, and friends close to me, so whatever your opinions are of me now I really couldn't care less. I'll be civil to you if you reciprocate. Understand?"
Malfoy nodded, his lack of response confused Harry, who studied him for signs that he was about to break back into old habits at any moment, yet nothing came. Perhaps Kingsley was right about how much he'd changed. How broken he was.
It felt foreign and surprisingly it unnerved Harry more. At least before, Harry knew what he was dealing with when it came to Malfoy, he knew what to expect from him. Now the boy sitting before him, once so bitter and cruel, remained impassive.
Due to the lack of pushback from Malfoy, Harry softened a little. "Is there anything you want to say to me?"
Malfoy's gaze flitted across his hands, then the table, the floor, anywhere that wasn't Harry's probing eyes. It was hard to speak, constricted by the heaviness in his throat. "I- I don't hate you."
"Good," Harry spat, something about Malfoy sitting two feet away from him riled an anger in the pit of his stomach, "Quite frankly your reasons for hating me were ridiculous to begin with. I think my feelings towards you are far more agreeable."
Draco looked outright miserable, there was pain behind his expression, and Harry noted how well he held himself together in the face of such bitterness.
"I don't trust you." Harry said
"You think I'm still a death eater?"
"There's a mark on your arm, isn't there?"
"Snape was a death eater, " Draco spoke quietly, "He had this mark. Does that make him a bad person?"
Harry's mouth twisted, "Snape's dead now, and I still don't trust you." The anger inside was rising, he couldn't stop himself from spitting the words like acid, "You were going to murder Dumbledore. You we're actually going to kill another human being."
"You think I honestly wanted that?" Draco 's voice broke in his defence, now visibly wounded from his words. His eyes grew heavier with hurt, his lower lip biting down in a last attempt to hold it together. Being reminded of his mistakes tore him apart. He held back his argument, despite knowing Harry's words carried some truth, and looked away, allowing the silence to settle them.
Harry sat back in his chair, eyeing Draco warily, "I've said everything I had to say."
Draco's gaze hit the table and he nodded slowly, swallowing the heaviness in his throat. "I'm not here to cause trouble, or give you grief. It's your home and I respect that. I'll stay out of your way and keep my head down."
If this was an act, Malfoy was certainly putting on a strong performance. Harry couldn't make sense of it, he was so ready to fight back that it surprised him being the only one in the battle.
"Well... I appreciate that. Civil it is then." Harry said, scratching his head. He'd expected a full-blown screaming match and was left with respectful silence. He sat back down at the table, still studying Malfoy as if he was waiting for him to crack. He cleared his throat and continued, "Kingsley tells me you have your own finances?"
Malfoy's chest sunk, shutting himself off more. "Yes."
"So you have a job?"
"I... make money, yes."
"Where?"
"Does it matter?" Malfoy bit, growing frustrated with Harry's probing.
"As long as you're not being paid to engage in some dark magic cult then I don't care."
Malfoy resisted the urge to eyeroll at Harry's lack of tact, "If that's your subtle way of asking me if I'm still actively committing crimes and involving myself in prohibited schemes, then no, that's in my past and I don't have any intention to relive it."
"Right." Harry frowned. "Well, the cost of living here is reasonable, in my opinion anyway. I purchased this place outright after selling Grimmauld Place - the house that Sirius left for me, plus the money I had saved at Gringotts helped with that too. It's an enchanted house, the previous owners were all witches and wizards hence why I liked the idea of living here, magic works better in these walls and there's a certain feel about the place that just responds to me."
Malfoy was looking around at the various features across the room as Harry spoke. Exposed red-brick walls with rustic oak cabinets, a large round table off to the side where they sat, and dark wooden beams crossing over the ceiling above. He had to agree, it wasn't the worst house he'd stepped inside of, he supposed anything would've been better than the vast emptiness of the cold Manor he grew up in.
"Bills don't come to much and I rarely eat at home anyway so you might want to stock the cupboards yourself."
"Okay."
"I guess that's it." Harry said
Malfoy nodded and got up from the table, slicking back the strands of hair that had fallen over his tired eyes. "I'm going to unpack."
He drifted from the kitchen as timidly as he'd entered it, and Harry watched him go, rendered wordless by how their first real interaction had gone the complete opposite of how he thought it would. Despite being glad that the Malfoy no longer seemed to be much of a threat to him, something still felt off.
Malfoy was keeping his cards close to his chest, his vacant state making him almost impossible to read. He stopped just shy of the door and hesitated. "Potter... I'm sorry."
With that, he disappeared up the stairs, and Harry remained silent, questioning if he'd ever actually heard an apology from Malfoy before in his life.
***
Quarter-past five, Harry was already late to meet Ron and Hermione at The Rook. They'd agreed to meet at five straight from work but with his sudden change of plans having to welcome a new house guest, he was certain they wouldn't be bothered.
He pushed through the large oak double doors and was hit with a wave of noise from the excited chatter of various people crammed into booths and leaning against the bar, the clinking of glasses and the ding of the bell from the hatch of the kitchen.
It was dark inside, with only a hint of early evening light passing through the frosted stained windows. Dark green leather booths lined the walls whilst various rickety tables and chairs scattered the floor beside the huge mahogany bar. Candles were solidified to the tables by their own melted wax and tiny fireflies floated in between the open beams above. The air was thick with the aroma of hops, malt and cigarette ash.
Before he'd even reached the others, he caught sight of Ron grinning at him from across the floor and in turn shot him a look that indicated he'd had the day from hell. He waved a hand up at the bartender for his usual order, who nodded with a smile, before slumping down into the booth where Hermione and Ron were sitting.
Ron was still grinning, Hermione's expression was oozing sympathy.
"Malfoy?" Ron said
"Don't." Harry pinched his brow and ran a hand over his pained face, attempting to rub the frustration from his skin.
"Malfoy?" Ron repeated, his tone suggesting he was still in shock
Harry dropped his head back against the seat of the booth looking defeated. "You heard then?"
"You just can't catch a break, can you mate?"
"I... I...," Harry sighed, unable to form words, "I don't want to sound arrogant... but haven't I suffered enough?"
"Oh, Harry," Hermione comforted, "I couldn't believe it either when Ron told me. It's preposterous, it really is. How could Kingsley think sending Malfoy of all people would be a good idea?"
"Beats me." Harry shrugged. The waiter handed over his drink and Harry thanked him before taking a long sip and exhaling.
"How long is he living there?" Hermione asked
"Eighteen months."
"Blimey!" Ron almost spat out his drink.
"According to Kingsley, I'm the 'best person' to take him in considering my attachments to the Ministry. He said I could monitor Malfoy for any suspicious behaviour or signs that he's still conspiring with other death eaters."
"That's a load of waffle." Hermione spat.
"He does have a point, 'Mione," Ron argued, "If anyone out there is gonna keep the death eaters in check then who better than our own personal saviour of the wizarding world?" he gestured across to Harry with a dashing smile.
Harry winced at that title, he hated any form of glory he got from the war, it meant nothing to him.
"No, I wasn't talking about Harry," Hermione corrected, "I meant, it's a load of waffle if anyone thinks that Malfoy is still at large with the death eaters. Almost all of them are either dead or in prison and we all saw Malfoy during his trial, he had completely fallen apart."
"Yeah, 'cause mummy and daddy weren't there to save him," Ron added, almost chuckling, "He took a lot of pride in being a death eater you know."
"Until Voldemort threatened his family." Harry reminded him. "You saw him towards the battle, he was a pathetic mess."
"Doesn't change what he did. He tried to murder Dumbledore, he almost poisoned me with that sodding drink! How would you feel then? If he'd accidently killed me?"
"I know, I know" Harry held his hands up in defence, a tense silence fell over them as Ron cooled down, "Believe me, I hate the guy as much as the next person, foul little git." he muttered into his drink. Hermione furrowed her brow and Ron snorted in agreement.
"Honestly mate, I feel for you, I really do. Do you think he's still like that?"
"A murderer?" Harry questioned, raising his brows. He shook his head, looking down into his drink. "No, he's too much of a coward for that. I don't think he ever planned to be."
"Well, of course not, he was chosen by Voldemort to perform the murder at the risk of being killed himself. People make all sorts of questionable choices when their lives are threatened," Hermione said, "Has he arrived at your house yet?"
"About an hour ago."
"Bloody hell, Harry, you dodged out of there as soon as you could!" Ron chuckled
"You left him alone in your house an hour into him moving in?" she added
"What's he gonna do? Tear up the floorboards and set the place on fire? The house is laced with magical enchantments, it'll fix itself. Besides, I have nothing to hide there anyway, he can turn the place upside down for all I care, it's not like I'm even home much."
"Fair enough," Ron shrugged, "No more drinks and crashing at your house then."
"Just 'cause Malfoy's there doesn't mean I'm gonna stop having a social life. He can sod off to his room when I'm around."
There was a silence between them as they all contemplated the new adjustment to Harry's life. Hermione sipped whatever sparkling blue concoction she was drinking before questioning Harry more. "Have you two spoken yet?"
"Briefly," Harry muttered. His head had dropped against the back of the booth again and he gazed up at the fireflies in the ceiling, lost in a haze of hopelessness.
"How did it go?"
He drew a breath and exhaled slowly, trying to find the words to explain his uncertainty. "It went... surprisingly well."
The unconvinced stares from Ron and Hermione matched his inner thoughts, but he continued.
"We sat down and spoke, I made my feelings clear, we agreed to be civil, to not bother each other or start silly arguments, and the weirdest thing was... he apologised to me."
"He what?" Ron's jaw dropped
"I know, it caught me off guard too. It's mad but, he actually seems... remorseful."
"Well do you blame him?" Hermione cut in, looking at the boys like they were completely oblivious, "Voldemort practically invaded his only home and threatened him into becoming a death eater. You saw how he was during those final years at school, he looked ridiculously ill, most likely terrified of being killed or betrayed and sent to Azkaban--"
Harry was staring down at the drink clasped between his hands, taking her words in whilst Ron remained affronted.
"He endured the most vindictive trial at the ministry, you were there Harry, you saw how badly he was treated, maybe none of us liked him very much but even we can admit he was accused of the most outrageous lies, those other death eaters allowed most of the brunt to fall on him."
"Which he was never deemed guilty of," Ron recalled
"They still tarnished his reputation. His only family has been sentenced to life in Azkaban and now he's having to grovel at Harry's feet just so that he doesn't end up homeless. You're probably right, Harry. Malfoy is most likely harbouring a lot of remorse and regret, simply wishing for a life free of suffering and fighting just like the rest of us."
"Well, I still believe he deserves to suffer." Ron muttered
"He's done four years in Azkaban." Harry reminded him
"Good, and now you can make his life hell too."
"Ron, don't you think you're being a little harsh?" Hermione cut in
"Since when are you such a Malfoy-lover?" Ron bit "He made it clear how he felt about you, 'Mione."
Hermione glowered at him, crossing her arms. "I'm not a Malfoy-lover and I don't care what his opinions are of me. We all agreed with the program, didn't we? Everyone known to have been involved in conspiring with the Dark Lord's plan who was willing to prove they were merciful deserved a second chance."
Reluctantly, they both nodded.
"Well that applies to Malfoy, too. Whether we like him or not." she answered, finishing her drink aggressively before resigning from the conversation. Her point was made.
For a while, they sat in silence, Ron grumbling into his drink whilst Harry replayed his conversation with Malfoy in his head over and over.
It wasn't just the words he spoke, but his entire demeanour. All Harry saw during his brief encounter with him was regret, sadness, emptiness. A boy who looked beaten down and tossed aside, numb and willing to surrender, even if that meant handing over all of his power to Harry.
The tension was broken when the waiter reappeared with Ron's bowl of cheese-covered chips with gravy and another round of drinks. His face lit up and even Hermione managed a smile as she thanked him and took a fresh sip.
Harry passed up on the offer of food as the others dug in, any sign of agitation from their conversation had quickly vanished and he sunk into his seat, wondering if Malfoy could respectfully stand by his word about keeping things civil.
Only time would tell.
***
Draco closed the door to the bedroom behind him and rested against it, looking out across the room that was now, apparently, his.
His room? It didn't feel like his room. It wasn't, it was a spare room, for guests and even then he wasn't a guest, more like an inconvenience.
He walked across to the window and pulled back the heavy velour curtain, dust particles floated lazily in the air as the sunlight recaptured the room. The view outside was pleasant - tall trees with shrubbery surrounding the edges of the garden, wildflowers swayed gently in the breeze between the stepping stones that lead from the back door to the bench by the willow tree at the far end. It was tucked away out of sight from anything else and looked rather peaceful, though he was certain he hadn't seen a single sight of greenery as he approached the house earlier.
As he observed the room, he noticed dust had settled on most of the furniture, Potter obviously didn't care to maintain the cleanliness of a room he was never in. The plant beside the bed was withering slightly and the two pillows he saw on the bed didn't match each other or the bedding, not that it mattered.
The shelf on the wall held various moving photographs in mismatched frames. One captured Potter with his Gryffindor friends in what looked like their common room, another was a quidditch team photo where Potter could only have been about twelve years old, bright-eyed and beaming next to his broomstick.
Draco turned away and approached the bed apprehensively, allowing only his fingertips to stroke the sheets. It was soft and cool where it had remained situated in the shade of the room all day. Sitting down on the edge cautiously, he felt the bedding underneath his palms, wondering what it felt like to sleep through the night, if he would ever have that luxury again.
The sun ducked behind a cloud, and suddenly the room was drained of colour. Draco felt his chest sink again, sadness lurched in the pit of his stomach, and his mind felt empty with a lack of any actual feeling.
He looked across at the holdall on the floor but physically couldn't bring himself to move. It was silly, all he had to do was unpack a few clothes and books and he'd be done. Two minutes it would take, yet he couldn't, it felt impossible.
He remained paralysed on the edge of the bed, feeling like he couldn't breathe. An overwhelming flood of emptiness rendered him stiff, as though his mind was fighting to carry on but his body resisted.
An aching pain twitched in his arms and reluctantly he pulled back the sleeves of his jumper, looking down at the bruises around his wrists, speckled yellowish purple striking against his pale skin. Twisting his arms, he saw the scabs and the broken skin that tarnished his dark mark, dried blood stained the flesh and the scars over both wrists taunted him. He winced at the sight of them before tugging his sleeves back down hastily.
He laid himself slowly on the bed, kicked off his shoes and tucked his knees to his chest. On his side, strands of blonde fragmented his vision but he didn't care, he curled into one of the pillows and pulled it close against his chest, his body sunken into the sheets below.
He felt his throat tighten as he closed his eyes, tears welling inside. It was painful but numb. A kind of hurt so familiar he welcomed it in like a friend.
Overwhelmed and suffocating by the blanket of darkness that never let him rest, he pulled the pillow tighter into his body and began to cry.
Painful silent sobs that only he could feel. Tears streamed down his face, staining the fabric below until he couldn't breathe.
He didn't even know what hurt, all he knew was that he didn't want this.
The sun started to set and as darkness rolled in, Draco's sobs began to mellow to ragged breaths and soft tears until eventually, ever so gently, he drifted into sleep.
***