The next day, Draco snaps awake as time resets; he's slept, he thinks groggily, for at least fourteen hours, and he feels extremely embarrassed for being so melodramatic. It helps that no one will remember how melodramatic he was – but since he remembers, it doesn't help all that much.
He uses his en suite bathroom, and once he's showered, washed his face and shaved he feels much more awake and alive. And . . . determined. He's not sure what he's determined to do, but first things first: he needs to pick up his little owl and name it. He feels sure that if he'd had his owl around yesterday, he wouldn't have locked himself in his trashed bedroom like a humongous twat.
So he Apparates directly to the Magical Menagerie, arriving before it's even opened. He doesn't want to wait around though – if anything, the time loop has taught him that patience is not a virtue – so he hammers on the door until a very irate old man in a nightcap peers down from an upstairs window.
"We're not open!" the proprietor croaks down. "Come back later!"
"I just want the little owl," Draco calls, and he levitates fifteen galleons up to the man, who catches it, muttering something Draco can't hear, and disappears from the window. But before Draco can worry that he's been ripped off, the little owl, obviously Summoned from downstairs in the shop, zooms out of the window and lands on Draco's waiting raised finger.
It gives him an extremely sulky look and pecks his finger – hard.
"Ow!" Draco says. "What was that for?"
The owl's sulky look turns stern – as stern as a tiny owl with eyes almost larger than its head can manage – and shakes its head, before flying off his finger to land on his shoulder . . . and peck his ear.
"OK, OK, I'm sorry," Draco says. "What am I sorry for?"
Another peck. Draco's ear will be shredded at this rate.
"I'm sorry for not picking you up yesterday," he tries.
The little owl hoots, and then snuggles up to him.
Draco blinks; the little owl can remember that? It seems extremely unlikely. But, a snuggle is better than a peck, so he grips the little owl tight to his shoulder and Apparates back home to his bedroom.
He's not sure what to do once he's there, though. He doesn't think he can face Potter today after their abortive kiss; while Potter won't remember, he'll remember. Just thinking about it is making him turn vermillion. Merlin . . . he wanted to kiss Potter so badly. But, he thinks firmly, it was probably a good thing he didn't. Potter was drunk – extremely drunk – and Draco was . . . available. Thinking that takes the shine off everything immediately. Potter had probably wished he was Finch-Fletchley, Draco thinks sourly. He'd have kissed anything that moved and had a dick at that point.
No; he doesn't want to see Potter today. But, on the other hand, he doesn't want to sit about his room sulking either.
The little owl hoots, bouncing up and down on Draco's bed and then flapping its wings, taking off and zooming around the room, before landing on the bed again and bouncing.
Draco smiles at it; he still can't think what to call it. How do normal people name their pets? He has no idea; he's never had one. But, looking at the owl, he has an idea. He apologised to the bird and it made him feel about one hundred percent better. Maybe . . .
It seems dim, and unnecessary, but he's filled with an urge to apologise en masse to other people. Other people who have fewer feathers and are one hundred per cent more human.
Once he's started writing apology notes – simple ones, which consist of one line: I want to apologise for any harm or upset I've caused you. D. Malfoy – he finds he's collecting quite a pile. Many of the teachers at Hogwarts rate one, as do a number of fellow students – he finds himself underlining the word 'apologise' in his note to Katie Bell. He considers sending one to Weasley, or to Weasley's sister, but his regret only goes so far – if he sends a letter to Ginevra, he'll end up with Ronald on his doorstep, trying to cave his head in.
By the time he's finished, there are an embarrassing number of notes, and he considers whether he should actually send them. He's just decided that, actually, it was the writing of the notes that was the cathartic part, and he'd prefer to just ceremonially Vanish the things, when the little owl bounds over the pile, pulls one out, and darts out the window, leaving Draco gaping, open mouthed, at empty space where the owl once was.
Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.
Draco rummages through the pile of letters, trying to work out which letter the owl has taken and who he's delivering it to, going alternately hot and cold. He suddenly regrets the whole thing very much; who cares if tomorrow the people involved won't remember? He's still got to get through today!
It takes him five panicky minutes, but he works it out eventually: the letter has gone to Hagrid, of all people.
The thought makes him shudder, and he sits on his bed, trying not to groan. Draco, although he'd never admit it out loud, has always been a bit scared of Hagrid – the half-giant is so massive that if he decided to sit on Draco, Draco is uncertain whether he'd survive the experience.
But . . . looking on the bright side, Hagrid is presumably still in Hogwarts, over in Scotland. This, Draco reasons, is very far away – if the little owl manages to get there before the day resets itself, then there won't be time for Hagrid to react to the note. Draco isn't sure how Hagrid would react, but the man is unpredictable . . . and fond of monsters. Draco wouldn't put it past him to send his reply via dragon, and then pretend to be surprised when the fiery bugger burned him to death.
Which is why Draco nearly jumps out of his skin when, just ten minutes later, the fireplace flares green, and the little owl barrels out of it, a note clutched in its talons, which it deposits with an air of smugness on his lap.
Has the sodding thing used Floo powder to hop from a grate in London to one in Hogsmeade? How on earth would an owl do that?
"Oi, you," he says, fixing it with a hard look. "What are you up to, you little bastard?"
The bird hoots, with an air of innocence, but Draco can see the remnants of a glittery, silver powder on its beak. Fucking thing; of all the owls he had to pick, he chose a tiny evil mastermind. He picks up the letter with finger and thumb and examines it. The paper is stained with soil and blotchy with ink, and he wrinkles his nose; it probably is from Hagrid. Ugh, vile.
He opens it with a sense of foreboding and reads the short letter contained within. It's spelled correctly, to his surprise, but it doesn't give much away.
Thank you for your letter. But it's not me you need to apologise to. R. Hagrid
Draco looks between the letter and the little owl, which sits up straight and hoots, as if indicating that it's willing and ready to go again, again!
So . . . fuck it. He writes a reply, asking simply:
If not you, then who? D.M.
The little owl swoops on him to snatch the note before he can change his mind, darts over to the mantelpiece over the fire, takes a pinch of Floo powder in its beak and vanishes into the fireplace with a burst of green flame. It seems entirely implausible to Draco – does the Floo system recognise hoots as well as plain English? And if so, since when? – but he's not an expert in these things, and he wouldn't put it past the whole bloody species to have worked it out ages ago, so they could simply pretend to spend five days delivering a letter, when really they were spending four and half of those days lying in owl-y luxury, eating finest mouse.
It's not long before the owl returns, bearing a return missive from Hagrid. It reads:
If you really want to say sorry, stop by for tea today if you're free. I'll be in my hut.
There is nothing, really, that Draco would like less, but he finds himself rummaging in his wardrobe for an outfit suitable for the occasion: formal robes are, of course, out of the question in Hagrid's stinking, dirty hut.
He decides, eventually, on a simple combination of white shirt, black trousers and black dragonhide boots, and slings a light travelling cloak around his shoulders, before utilising the Floo himself, saying clearly, "The Hog's Head," into the fireplace as he steps into the cold flames.
He keeps his elbows well in as he travels – he's not a massive fan of travelling by Floo – and half-falls out of the fireplace at his destination, only managing to stay upright with a stagger and a lurch. It's one of the reasons he's gone for the Hog's Head rather than the Three Broomsticks; fewer people to see him arrive. It was a dive back when he was at school, and it's a dive now – run down and gloomy. As he steps out into the main bar, the customers turn their backs on him; not, he thinks, because of who he is, but more because they'd prefer not to be seen while conducting their business.
It is, he thinks, the sort of place he suspects people like Potter thought would vanish after the war was won, but places like this will never vanish. The underbelly of society will always need a place to meet, and shit tips like the Hog's Head will always fill that niche.
Still, Draco nearly trips over his own feet when the barman nods at him and says, "Good morning, boy. In here early, aren't you?"
Draco supposes that most people who use the Floo are here to actually drink, and it is never good policy to annoy someone of influence, but he freezes. He knows who Aberforth Dumbledore is, but he's never spoken to him before.
"Yes, boy, I know who you are," Aberforth says. "You're the Malfoy lad, the one who tried to kill my brother but left it to someone else to do the dirty job."
Draco considers his options: walk out, head held high, or . . . He goes for option two. "I'm very sorry," he says, since that seems to be what he's doing today. "Really, I am."
Aberforth shoots him a sharp look. "Are you now? Sorry you couldn't bring yourself to do it, or sorry it happened at all?"
Draco does some more considering. "Both, I think," he says honestly, because he's often wondered – mostly in the middle of the night, when things are at their bleakest – what would have been different if he had killed Dumbledore himself, if he'd proved his loyalty to the Dark Lord and won back Voldemort's favour for himself and his family. Would things have been better . . . or worse?
Aberforth continues polishing a glass for a moment, and then nods. "It was a bad business, and I'm glad it's over," he says, and then turns away to serve a customer in a hood so big it conceals his whole head, right down to his neck.
Draco, sensing an opportunity to escape, walks quickly out of the pub, through the streets of Hogsmeade and towards Hogwarts. He feels a twinge of discomfort as he passes through the front gates – both at the memories it invokes and the knowledge of what might be to come – but tries to squash it, walking quickly and with purpose past up the path and then off it, bearing left towards Hagrid's wooden hut, on the edge of the forest.
When he gets there, his courage shrinks, but he knocks on the door and waits.
For a moment, he wonders if Hagrid's not at home, and he decides he'll leg it if there's no answer in the next two seconds, but then the door creaks open and Hagrid steps out, towering over him. He might as well be a first year, terrified of the enormous, dirty, uncouth groundsman all over again.
"H-h-h-hullo," he says, raising his chin. "You s-said I should come."
Hagrid eyes him with intense dislike; Draco can see it, even despite the all-encompassing matted facial hair. "Yeh're early, Malfoy," he says grumpily, "but come on in," and he retreats inside, leaving the door open.
Draco swallows hard but does as asked, reminding himself that Potter spoke up on his behalf at his trial, so Hagrid won't attack him. Probably.
Hagrid's massive dog, curled up by the unlit fire, raises its head and growls at him, exposing massive fangs and drooling alarmingly. Draco tries to look like he would taste extremely bad.
"Down, Fang," Hagrid says – but reluctantly, as if he would really like it if Fang did eat him. But, to Draco's relief, the dog lowers its head and closes his eyes, though it still growls from time to time in a blood-curdling way.
"I didn' 'spect yeh ter actually come," Hagrid says, waving his wand at a kettle. Draco prepares himself to drink yet another cup of extremely bad tea; what's with these people?
"Well, here I am," Draco says, because anyone with eyes can see that.
Hagrid shoots him a dark look. "Yeh're in me home, Malfoy. Keep a civil tongue in yer head or I'll boot yeh out, right in the seat o' yer pants."
Draco bristles, but manages to restrain himself from answering back; it will do no good, and he suspects the oaf will simply carry out his threat. He reminds himself that it was he who made the first move here, so he might as well see the thing through.
"Milk? Sugar?" Hagrid asks, after the tea's brewed.
Draco nods, and Hagrid passes him a mug of tea that looks almost passable, considering. He takes a ginger sniff.
"I'm not gonna poison yeh, yeh big daftie," Hagrid says with a snort, taking a revolting slurp of his own tea. "It's on'y tea."
Draco takes a sip to show willing; the tea is milky and sweet and just how he likes it, and he relaxes marginally. At least this torture will be accompanied by a good drink.
"Toffee?" Hagrid asks, waving a tin at him.
Draco feels honour bound to accept, but when he sucks on it dubiously, the stuff gums his teeth together, and he wonders if he's made a mistake. It seems to have the same effect on Hagrid though, and they sit in silence for a time, furiously sucking.
Hagrid's teeth slurp free first, and he says, thickly, "So, are yeh genuine 'bout wantin' ter say sorry for what yeh've done?"
Draco attempts to open his jaw, but he's still stuck tight, so he nods.
This seems to please Hagrid, because he leans forward and claps Draco on the shoulder, with a force hard enough to nearly knock him off his chair. He rummages in his pocket for a hanky and blows his nose with violent force. "I'm glad ter hear it," he says with barely suppressed emotion. "Harry tol' me that yeh weren't that bad, but I . . ." Another honk. "I'm afraid ter say I didn' believe him. And durin' yer trial, yer didn' seem all that sorry."
Draco tries very hard to speak, but he can't manage it. He's sorry all right; sorry he ever decided to write that ludicrous letter and make this ludicrous journey.
"But . . . it's not me yeh need ter say sorry to," Hagrid says, pulling himself together.
Draco, with a mighty effort, manages to speak. "Who?" he says indistinctly.
Hagrid frowns, drawing together massive eyebrows. "Why, Beaky, o' course!" he says, mystifyingly.
"Beaky?" Draco repeats.
"He's officially called Witherwings now," Hagrid explains happily, "but he'll always be Beaky ter me."
The truth dawns on Draco. Hagrid expects him to say sorry to that vicious, monstrous fugitive from justice – the hippogriff Buckbeak. He knew, of course, that the thing had escaped, but he didn't know that it had returned to Hagrid and was there, at Hogwarts, right under the nose of the lawmakers of the country.
For a moment, he feels an urge to protest, to storm down to the castle gates and out through them, Apparating straight to the Ministry to report Hagrid for harbouring a criminal. But sanity soon prevails. He supposes that, in truth, the animal – though a vicious, unpleasant sod – wasn't more violent than any other member of its species. It had gored him, yes, but . . . perhaps it wasn't entirely the creature's fault, and he had hammed up the injury somewhat, mostly to annoy Potter. Madam Pomfrey had healed the cut almost right away, and it had hurt for an hour or two, max.
Still, that doesn't mean Draco wishes to spend any time with the thing; he doesn't know if hippogriffs hold grudges, but it would be just his luck. "I'm very sorry, of course," he says hastily, sucking away the remains of the toffee. "Perhaps you could pass on my regrets to, er, Beaky, next time you see him?"
"Why, he's here righ' now," Hagrid replies, seemingly oblivious. "I tol' him yeh were comin', and he agreed ter be civil if yeh'll be civil ter him."
Draco takes a deep breath; can Hagrid really talk to a dumb animal like that? He hears the ghost of a hoot in his head; he's left his little owl back at the Manor, but it's fair to say that the creature has already taught him not to underestimate the craftiness of magical creatures. "OK," he says dubiously. "Are you sure the thing – I mean, are you sure that Beaky won't attack?"
Hagrid gives him a meaningful look. "P'raps yeh'd better call him Buckbeak," he says thoughtfully. "Since yeh aren' exac'ly friens." He leads the way out of the hut and towards a paddock in a clearing a little way from the hut. "I don' think Beaky'll attack," he adds, to Draco's alarm. "Depends how good yer apology is, Malfoy, and whether yer really mean it. Beaky'll be able ter tell."
Draco's legs seem to carry him onwards towards the fenced-in paddock, where five or six hippogriffs are grazing, entirely without his permission. He tries very hard to feel genuinely sorry for the wounding, violent little shit, and only succeeds in feeling sorry for himself – particularly when he catches a glimpse of 'Beaky' himself. The horrible thing turns, its wide orange eyes glowing with menace, and fluffs up its grey feathers. It's bigger than Draco remembers, and its front feet claw at the ground, as if it wishes that instead of grass under his talons, Draco's body was lying there.
Hagrid whistles, and the thing paces over with too much eagerness; Draco has a vision of it leaping on him and goring him, as soon as Hagrid frees it. Although . . . it's got wings, hasn't it? It doesn't need to be freed. It could just flap and be on him in a flash. He tries not to shudder or show fear; it's just a bird. Sort of. Just a bloody chicken.
A chicken that's going to eat him alive.
"Now, Malfoy, stay real still and bow yer head, and remember – yeh have ter be actually sorry, not jus' pretend. Oh, an' maintain eye contact!" Hagrid says unhelpfully, opening up the gate.
The hippogriff stalks through and fixes its orange stare on Draco, who finds himself bending his head, and then his body, until he's on his knees in front of the creature. Perfect position to be disembowelled, he thinks with an edge of hysteria, trying to maintain the uncomfortable pose while also staring the thing in the eye. "Dear Mr Buckbeak, I am very sorry for what I did," he gabbles. "Potter has forgiven me, and I hope you will forgive me too."
Hagrid snorts. "Is tha' the best yeh can do?"
"I am truly sorry that I didn't speak up for you to the Ministry," Draco continues desperately, seeing feathered death approaching. He supposes he is sorry; if he had spoken up for it, he wouldn't be in this position now. "I was rude to you, and you were only reacting to that. If I hadn't been rude in the first place, you would never have hurt me."
Hagrid sniffs from behind him. "He barely touched yeh – did yeh, Beaky? Big fuss over nothing."
"Yes, yes, that's right," Draco says doubtfully. His eyes are watering, and he wonders what will happen if he blinks. "Just a small gash, barely any blood at all."
"Not sarcasm!" Hagrid says, with a touch of alarm. "Beaky won' like it!"
"It was fixed in a jiffy," Draco amends hastily as the creature twitches. "I was making a fuss about nothing. I really am truly sorry."
"He is, an' all," Hagrid says, and Draco tries not to wince at the sound of him honking into a hankie again. "Look! Look, Malfoy!"
Draco tries not to be irritated; he can see very well what's happening. He's been staring at the fucking thing for what seems like a hundred years. It's bending its neck, rather reluctantly, in a small bow.
"Go on! Give 'im a stroke!"
Draco straightens up and does as he's told; he still thinks there's a good likelihood of the thing clawing him and then stamping on him with its hind hooves to finish the business. But, to his surprise, the creature submits to his touch, and then its hind legs sink to the ground.
"Aw, thatta boy!" Hagrid says, sounding choked. "He wants yeh to get on his back. That's forgiveness, tha' is."
Draco cringes at the thought of mounting the ungainly beast and going flying, but he suspects if he turns it down then it really will gore him. So, reluctantly, he mounts it, and he's scrabbling for a handhold – he doesn't want to pull its feathers, in case that pisses it off – when it launches what feels like straight up into the air, in an ungainly, bouncing flight that has Draco clenching his knees and wrapping his hands tightly into its feathers anyway. In a choice of deaths, he'll go with goring, rather than plunging to the ground and breaking every bone in his body.
After a few minutes, when he's slightly more sure he's not going to die, the experience turns from terrifying to . . . well, still terrifying, but also exhilarating. The hippogriff flies high, but below the clouds, so the landscape swoops by at a brisk clip. Scotland is exceptionally beautiful, and it's even more beautiful when seen from the air. The wind rushes through Draco's hair, and after a few more minutes he even lets out a whoop of enjoyment, which makes the hippogriff caw and coast along on an air current, wings held high and wide. It's fantastic.
When the hippogriff returns to the paddock near Hagrid's hut and lands, they've been up in the air for almost half an hour, and Draco's legs are so stiff he can barely stand up, but he's grinning ear to ear.
The grin falters somewhat when he sees who's standing next to Hagrid, looking extremely puzzled.
It is, of course, Harry sodding Potter.
Can he do nothing without Potter turning up? Does everything lead back to the speccy git? He remembers how much he wanted to kiss him, the day before. He doesn't want to kiss him now. He wants to push him face down in Hagrid's pumpkin patch and stamp on him.
"Have yeh said sorry ter Harry?" Hagrid says sternly, when Draco manages to stagger over – he takes it slow, because if he falls over in the dirt, then he'll have to Obliviate everyone in sight, sod the fact that they'll forget it by tomorrow. "Seems ter me, yeh owe 'im the biggest 'pology there is, fer being a great big—"
"It's fine, Hagrid, really," Potter interrupts, looking deeply uncomfortable. "Um, hello, Malfoy. Bit surprised to find you here, but Hagrid—"
"Ditto," Malfoy says shortly.
"—sent me a note, asking me to come," Potter continues, ignoring the interruption. "I was at the unity event. You know, the one you're involved with?" he continues. "Your father gave your apologies, said you were sick in bed." He gives Draco a look as if to suggest that he might be sick in the head, but there's no evidence of a bed.
Hagrid shakes his head, to Draco's surprise. "Now, Harry, Malfoy's done a good job o' apologisin' ter Bucky. Don' wind him up."
Potter seems just as surprised.
"Go on, then, Malfoy," Hagrid prompts, indicating Potter.
Merlin. This was not how Draco had planned this going. But . . . He takes a deep breath. "Potter, I am very sorry," he says, looking Potter in the eye.
To his delight, Potter looks deeply uncomfortable at this and doesn't ask why Draco's sorry. It's possibly the worse apology in the world, but Potter doesn't seem to care. "It's OK, Malfoy, I forgive you," he mumbles. "It wasn't all your fault."
Draco feels metaphorical steam come out of his ears, but he tries not to react to Potter's forgiveness. Ugh. How extremely repellent; as if he wants forgiveness. Embarrassment coils through him.
Hagrid stomps over and claps him on the shoulder. "Time fer an early lunch," he announces. "Come an' have some stoat sarnies, the both o' yer."
Draco has never been offered a stoat sarnie before, and he wishes that he'd remained ignorant of the idea. He wonders how he can get out of this one, without offence. Hagrid still has control of a herd of hippogriffs, after all, and that's not even mentioning his killer hound.
"Thanks, Hagrid," Potter says, "but since Malfoy and I are here, we should probably pop in and say hello to the headmistress."
"Yes, he's right," Draco says quickly – not because he especially wants to say hello to McGonagall, but between her and a stoat sandwich, he'll take her any time.
"Ver' well," Hagrid says cheerfully, obviously not offended. "Come on, Beaky. Back in the paddock with yer." And he walks off, leading the hippogriff away and talking to it as if it were human.
Draco and Potter look at each other – and, to Draco's surprise, Potter grins. It's a genuine grin, and his whole face lights up. "Didn't fancy Hagrid's stoat sarnies then, did you?"
"Hell, no," Draco says whole-heartedly, wrinkling his nose. "I've never heard of anything so vile. The toffee was quite enough for one day."
Potter laughs, and they walk towards the path, giving the Whomping Willow a wide berth. "So, you bunked off today, then?" Potter asks.
"Well, yes," Draco agrees cautiously.
"To . . . say sorry to Buckbeak?" Potter continues. He sounds curious.
Draco shrugs, even though Potter's not looking; he's gazing at his feet as they walk, as if he's never seen anything so fascinating. "Today felt like a day for sorrys," he says. It's not really an explanation, but then he doesn't really have an explanation. He could tell Potter about the time loop, he supposes, but he doesn't want to. It feels . . . different, to be an enigma to Potter for once. He likes the idea of Potter being truly baffled by him.
"Glad it was you flying Buckbeak and not me," Potter says; there's a smile in his voice. "Give me a broom any day."
Draco can't help but agree – but, despite that, flying Buckbeak was . . . magical, in all senses of the word.
"Won't you be in the shit for missing your speech?" Potter asks, as if he's only just thought about it. "I feel bad for letting Kingsley down; I promised him I'd stay for the whole day. I . . ." He grins, slightly shamefaced. "I didn't really want to go at all."
Draco considers this. "If I was really in trouble, my father would have sent an elf to find me," he says. He realises he hasn't actually thought about what his father would do when he found him missing; today, he forgot to leave a note for his mother. He feels a bit guilty, but . . . "I think making amends is more important than making empty gestures," he says, and is surprised to realise that he actually means it.
Potter shoots him a sidelong glance. "Really?" he says.
Draco nods. "Really." He still doesn't think much of being forgiven by Potter, but . . . perhaps it's not so bad. Besides, Potter never apologised sincerely for his Sectumsempra; it feels warming to have the moral high ground for once. He forgave Potter for it a long time ago – it was quite obvious, after he'd recovered, that Potter had no idea that the curse would be so vicious – but still.
"Then I have an idea," Potter says as they reach the entrance to the castle. "Come on."
As Potter leads the way in, and through the familiar halls, Draco realises that Potter really is leading them to the old headmaster's office. He feels a familiar sense of dread; Dumbledore could always see right through him. He reminds himself that Dumbledore is gone, but McGonagall isn't much better, all things being equal – she was never much of a fan of his either.
But it would be churlish to object, so he follows Potter up to the seventh floor, on the east side of the castle, and tries not to blink when Potter speaks a password to the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance; Potter knows it, which means he comes here often.
And he can't help but blink when Professor McGonagall embraces Harry when she sees him, as if he's her own son, and they talk as if they're old friends. He's impressed, too, that McGonagall barely flinches when she sees him in Potter's company, and when Potter's stopped talking, she turns to him and puts out her hand for him to shake.
"Good to see you again, Mr Malfoy," she says politely, and he nods and replies in kind.
"Are the kids busy this afternoon?" Harry asked. "Because if not, I had an idea."
"No, not that I know of," McGonagall replies. "I hope we'll see you and Mr Malfoy for lunch first?"
Potter nods, and smiles, and Draco follows him out of the office, completely mystified.
"What kids?" he asks, when they're safely out. It's the summer holidays, and he's frankly surprised that there are any teachers about, let alone children.
"Oh," Potter says. "I asked the headmistress if, as a special favour, she could keep Hogwarts open over the summer hols for any students who didn't want to go home or don't have a proper home to go to. There are six this year, I think." He looks a little grim for a moment, and Draco decides not to pry; the word cupboard comes into his mind, and he winces.
"I thought that since we're here, we could organise a game of Quidditch," Potter continues, a bit more cheerfully.
"Quidditch," Draco repeats, because . . . really? Some of their worst rivalry was played out on the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch. Is reprising it really such a great idea?
"Don't you miss it?" Potter asks, and doesn't wait for a reply. "I dream that I'm playing it sometimes. I don't get to fly enough any more."
"Well, yes, I miss it," Draco confesses, although the thought of being on a broom still alternately makes him wistful and gives him chills. "But if you miss it, why don't you just become a Quidditch player? Professionally, I mean."
"I thought about it," Potter says lightly, "but . . . I always wanted to be an Auror. I'm going to start my training properly in a couple of months. I just . . . needed a break beforehand, you know? And . . ." He trails off, and then clearly makes an effort to pull himself together. "Kingsley said they wouldn't accept me as an Auror until it had been at least a year."
"Why?" Draco asks, even though he realises it's an arse of a question and something delicate lies behind Potter's carefully casual words.
"Oh . . ." Potter shrugs and doesn't reply until they're walking back down the grand staircase and into the Entrance Hall. "I think Kingsley wanted to be sure I was joining up to help people, not to take revenge."
Draco wets his lips. "Did you?" he asks. "Do you?"
Potter halts and turns to look at him. "What do you think?" he asks – and he looks genuinely puzzled. It makes Draco wonder what Kingsley was on when he made that decision, although . . . perhaps Kingsley just needed an excuse to give to Potter, to make him take a break before he dove into Auror training and gave his life to it. Draco knows he'll give his life to it unless someone can stop him, give him a reason to stop.
"It would be quite understandable," he says – because it's true, "but . . . no. Anyway, where are we going?"
Potter takes a moment to digest this, and then says, as he leads the way through a door behind the staircase and down the flight of stairs that lead to the kitchens, "The Hufflepuff common room."
Draco, with great dint of will, manages not to wrinkle his nose, but he must pull a face of some sort because Potter grins.
"Come on, Malfoy, being Hufflepuff isn't catching," he says, and pauses by an alcove with a large stack of enormous barrels in front of it. He taps a specific barrel in a jaunty rhythm, and the lid of the barrel swings open, revealing a passage lined with earth.
"Good god, Potter, really?" Draco asks as Potter bends to enter the tunnel.
"I'm afraid so," Potter says, and crawls off.
Draco, trying not to stare at Potter's backside, follows him, after a brief internal shudder. To his relief, the tunnel isn't a long one, and it soon opens out into a cosy room packed with plants, with a view of the dandelion-dotted lawns outside the castle. It's sunnier than the dungeons by far, and cheery, and Draco can see why the students who've stayed in the castle over summer have chosen this particular common room as their base – at least, he presumes that they're from more than one house.
The students – a handful of second and third years, one fourth year and a couple of fifth years – greet Potter as an old friend, but stare at Draco as if they're not quite sure what to make of him. But Potter makes an effort to include him in the conversation, and soon they're all chatting away like old friends – with that sense of awkwardness that always comes with meeting up with old friends, who aren't the same as you remember, and you're fairly sure you've nothing in common any more and you can't, to be honest, remember exactly why you were ever friends in the first place.
But . . . it's not so bad, Draco would admit, if pressed, and in an hour or so they all troop into the Great Hall for lunch at the Slytherin tables – even though he thinks he's the only Slytherin amongst them – where they're joined by Hagrid and McGonagall. And, after lunch, and an appropriate break to let their food go down, they all make their way to the Quidditch pitch and get ready for a match.
Draco finds himself dressed in Hufflepuff colours, leading a team that consists of two Ravenclaws and a Gryffindor, against Potter, who's in Slytherin green and leading a team made up of Hufflepuffs. Professor McGonagall referees enthusiastically from the sidelines, with Hagrid cheering beside her. It's . . . a little unusual. There aren't enough of them to play a proper game, so they just leave out the Beaters and the Bludgers altogether, and soon Draco, straining to keep up with Potter as he zooms around the pitch, has all but forgotten his nerves about being on a broom again. How had he thought it would be different? It's not different; it's wonderful.
And as Draco looks over at Potter, who's laughing so hard he's nearly falling off his broom, his Slytherin-green Quidditch robes flapping in the light breeze, he thinks: this is real unity here, sod the so-called 'unity' event at the stiff, stuck-up Palace of Westminster, and he feels his stomach lurch . . . and knows it has nothing to do with being in flight.