Chapter Six of 'Chosen Chains'- The Room of Lost Things (2/2)

[lomonaaeren]

This chapter has been split in two for length reasons. Don't start reading here.



Chapter Five.

Title: Chosen Chains (6/7)
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairings: Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione
Rating: R
Warnings: Heavy angst, bondage, D/s elements, violence, sex, profanity. EWE.
Summary: Harry has spent the last two years in semi-exile from the wizarding world after bitter arguments with the Ministry and his best friends. Now the Ministry summons him back, since they can’t run the school without the cooperation of Dumbledore’s portrait—and Dumbledore will only talk to Harry. Draco, summoned to talk to Snape’s portrait at the same time, meets a Harry he hasn’t expected, one who’s going to request something strange from him, and perhaps require more than that.
Author’s Notes: This will be an irregularly updated story of, probably, five to seven parts, with fairly long chapters. The Dominance/submission elements are limited, but an important part of the story, and I haven’t often written them before, so please don’t read it if that bothers you.

Chapter One.


“Mr. Potter is reluctant to take advantage of the offer we have made him. I was wondering if you could tell me why that is?”

Draco took a long, slow sip of his soup before he answered. Covington had taken him to a restaurant in Hogsmeade that had opened since Draco’s time at Hogwarts, the Silver Apple, which he had heard about but never visited. Its reputation for quietness, dim fires, and excellent food was real. Draco couldn’t say anything about the brilliance of the conversation, its other reputed feature, given who he was dining with.

“Surely you must understand Potter’s psychology better than I do,” he murmured. “You work for the Ministry he also worked for, until two years ago.”

Covington sighed. “I never dealt with him when he was there, and I don’t quite understand the roots of the philosophical disagreement that made him leave. Perhaps you can help me understand that as well?”

Draco had to smile at her audacity. Covington didn’t seem to know what to make of the smile, if the hesitation before she began to pick at her salad again was any indication.

“I understood that the philosophical disagreement was simple and one that you must have had ample opportunity to observe for yourself,” Draco said mildly. “After all, he disagreed with the control that the Ministry wanted to have over Hogwarts.”

Covington raised her shoulder in a shrug. “Someone must. Dumbledore may have been wise, but not all Headmasters of the school can be equally wise. And of course, the idea that the government of the wizarding world should not have a say in the schooling of our children would be one that many reasonable people would look askance at.”

“We should at least try the experiment of an independent school under the guidance of another Headmaster before declaring that no one else could maintain the quality of his rule,” Draco said, and finished his soup.

“We have tried the experiment of an independent school for many years,” Covington countered. “Children were exposed to war and to choices that they should never have had to make.”

Draco raised an amused eyebrow. “Are you suggesting it was Dumbledore’s fault that Death Eaters took over the school in the last year before it closed, rather than the Dark Lord’s?” He wanted to see how Covington would get out of that one.

“I am sure the Headmaster did not intend what happened,” Covington said, in the gentle tone that could so easily suggest the exact opposite. “But it is true that he trusted Severus Snape more than he should have, and prioritized maintaining his cover among the Death Eaters over the safety of his students.”

“If no Headmaster can be another Dumbledore, then surely that will not happen again,” Draco said sweetly, and restrained the temptation to point out that, if Dumbledore hadn’t done that, the chances were excellent that they would now all be slaves of the Dark Lord.

“We have seen what wizards can do when pushed to the breaking point of their most fundamental passions,” Covington said. “When they fear for their lives. Students who come to Hogwarts in a few years’ time will feel the effects of that legacy. Soon we will have the children of those who fought in the war. What will their parents have taught them? That safety is to be prized over anything else, because survival was during the war. We have an obligation to consider keeping our students alive first.”

“I fail to see how an independent Headmaster would jeopardize that.” Draco considered ordering a salad of his own and decided he wasn’t hungry enough.

Covington sighed. “I have provided evidence. If you do not wish to listen to it, that is your affair.”

“Which leaves us where we were before,” Draco observed, and signaled the waiter for a glass of wine. “You wishing to understand what happened between Potter and the Ministry, and wishing to know what happened when Potter left the Ministry, and me unwilling to tell you.”

Covington smiled and looked over his head. “I think that we can settle this matter by appealing directly to the party we are both interested in,” she said. “I see Potter walking down the street outside. Shall we go to him?”

Startled, Draco turned his head. Yes, through the large plate-glass window of the Silver Apple, he could see Potter walking down the main street of Hogsmeade, a determined expression on his face. An Impervious Charm covered his hair against the light rain that had started falling, but it had managed to look disordered anyway. Draco licked his lips and hoped that he looked sufficiently cool and uninterested.

“Let’s,” he said, and nodded to the waiter before placing sufficient Galleons on the table to cover the cost of the meal.

*

“Potter!”

At least the name they used told Harry this wasn’t Ron or Hermione even before he turned around. He didn’t think they would call him by his surname when he’d last seen them outside Snape’s rooms anxious to reconcile with him.

But he had to admit, he didn’t expect to see both Covington and Malfoy when he turned around, only the first one. He immediately turned his head and kept his eyes fixed on Covington alone. He had no idea what he would have said to Malfoy even if he wanted to see him.

Malfoy was fixing his gaze on Harry as if he did know what he wanted to say and planned to lash Harry with his words. Harry straightened his back and ignored him.

He would speak with his friends, yes. They had showed that they wanted to reconcile, and that gesture alone had been enough to startle Harry into reevaluating truths that he’d thought were long since pinned-down. But Malfoy had pushed him and pushed him and—

Had said things that also made Harry realize that he was still ashamed of a secret he’d thought he’d come to terms with.

The centaur’s arrow was what did the real work, not Malfoy’s words, Harry told himself, and then attended to the conversation. “Malfoy, Covington,” he said, with shallow nods of his head, and nothing else. He didn’t think that he could reasonably pretend to be interested in their health, when one of them had threatened him and he had walked away from the other with angry words.

“Potter,” Malfoy said, and Harry knew then that Covington must have spoken his name the first time. Malfoy’s voice was soft, caressing, and he matched the word with a peculiar smile that made Harry instantly cautious.

He shrugged a little and said, “Was there something you wanted?”

“Covington had a question that she wanted to ask you, yes,” Malfoy said in innocent tones that made Covington straighten up in turn. “She wanted to know why you broke from the Ministry over the matter of Hogwarts.”

“Because I thought you lot would take over the school and turn it into a machine for the production of good little machine-citizens, however you define them,” Harry said, unmoved. He could say anything he liked now. He was going to leave and wasn’t involved in this delicate dance of keeping Hogwarts free of the Ministry. Ron and Hermione and Malfoy could probably manage that if they were allied, anyway. “How can you question that?”

“That is not what we would have done,” Covington said, and all but fluttered her eyelashes at him.

But Harry wasn’t going to be taken in with those subtle games. He shrugged to throw off her claim on him, and then said, “Of course you say that, but that’s the way it would have worked out, and I don’t care any longer about propitiating you. Someone who threatens to blackmail me quite often loses my sympathy.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Covington’s tone had turned flat and bored, and anyone who passed them and glanced at her would have thought she was discussing a matter of no more importance than the next meal they would have together.

“Pretend that, then,” Harry said. “I’m indifferent to it now.” He nodded to Malfoy. “I wish you well in your goal of getting Slytherin House restored and winning any other consolations that you can wrench from their clutches.” He turned his head.

“You and I have more business to talk about than that, Potter,” Malfoy said.

Harry closed his eyes as he suffered a spasm of irritation. He gave Malfoy every chance to walk away, and Malfoy still insisted on making the connection. Harry didn’t understand. Malfoy thought he was stupid and stubborn and oblivious. Why would he want to sleep or talk with someone like that?

Maybe you can take this chance to show him that you’re no longer like that.

Harry hesitated and then turned back. “Fine,” he said. “You have five minutes, and I want to do it in private, not in front of her.” He jerked his head at Covington.

Covington appeared to have already been offended by the fact that Harry wouldn’t play her little games anymore. She shook her head with a cold smile. “You need not worry about me, Mr. Potter,” she murmured. “I will be content if I can serve the goals of the wizarding world’s future, rather than my own private feuds.” She bowed to them and stalked away, cloak all but floating behind her.

“You might just have ruined our strategy,” Malfoy wasted no time in telling Harry.

“The way that you will, by telling me how I did, in front of a street full of strangers?” Harry asked in interest.

Malfoy jolted as though someone had pinched his arse and looked over his shoulder suspiciously. Then he made a beckoning motion and walked into a side alley between two shops that didn’t have windows facing the alley. Harry gave a little sigh and followed. He hoped that he had the sense to walk away if it turned out that talking with Malfoy would produce nothing but frustration.

That’s the first of many steps that I could take to try and live a new and better life, he thought, leaning against the wall of the alley and regarding Malfoy with as much indifference as he could. Don’t put up with situations that frustrate me.

“What did you want?” he asked. “Covington had a question, but did you?”

“I wanted to know if you’d done some thinking in the day since we parted,” Malfoy said, and raked him with an expert glance. “No actual growing up, I see. You can’t even be bothered to comb your hair.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I was going up to the castle to try and apologize to Ron and Hermione, if you must know.”

Malfoy again jolted. Harry wondered if that was uncomfortable for him. He leaned forwards this time and scanned Harry’s face as if he could read the truth there, even though Harry was telling him the truth. “Why?” he breathed.

Harry shrugged. “The centaur’s arrow made it possible for me to face some of the things I’d been repressing.” He hesitated, then decided to be generous. Maybe Malfoy would be less frustrating if he was. “And so did your words. It made no sense to be so ashamed of my secret if I’d really accepted it.”

“What did you decide about that?” Malfoy’s voice shifted a tone deeper.

“That I’ll probably always need my—things,” Harry said, and Malfoy half-turned his head as if to conceal a smile. Harry hissed. “Fine. I’ll always probably have to be bound and fucked. But once every few months, to control my anger, not as a regular activity. And I’d like someone to share it with, but I doubt that person exists.”

“I could be that person.”

Harry stared. There was no reason for him not to.

*

Draco knew Severus would have deplored the risk. So would he, in more rational moods. But “rational” did not apply to standing in an alley with Harry Potter and talking about his sex life.

He had had the most amazing sex of his life with this man, though. He had commanded him to return to the real world with his voice alone, and Draco had to admit that was a rush of power when he thought about it—away from the immediate dangers of facing the centaur’s arrow and fearing that Potter would die for it, or at least be lost forever to mental isolation. He’d fought the water-snakes and solved the riddles with him. Draco foresaw the possibility for an intellectual companionship with Potter as well as a sexual one, if he would get his head out of his arse.

No, Potter would never be an expert brewer. But Draco didn’t speak only to other Potions masters. He did, though, have a need in his life for someone who would be unlike him and yet close that his spies and friends and occasional lovers couldn’t fulfill.

It was stupid to try to fulfill the need now, at this time. Draco could acknowledge that. But he didn’t think Potter was the type to spread the news about, when he was so intent on keeping his sexuality secret. So it was the safest stupid risk of Draco’s life, because at least he could be an idiot in private.

He hated, at the moment, the idea that he might sit back in his wise silence and let a good chance pass by more than he hated the idea of being rejected.

“But you—” Potter said, and lowered his eyes. “I couldn’t do that every time. I don’t need that every time.”

“Neither do I,” Draco responded instantly. It was true; though it had been wonderful, he could make love in other positions, in other ways. His own experience revealed that. “But don’t you want to see what we could desire, as well as need?”

Potter swallowed and linked his hands together in front of his stomach, staring at them. Draco had no idea what they told him.

“I’m starting to accept these desires,” Potter said at last, the words sounding as if they were slicing his throat as he spoke them. “That doesn’t mean that I could have a regular lover based on them.”

“You don’t know that it means that, either,” Draco said, and then realized that the words probably didn’t say what he had wanted them to say. He hurried on before Potter could recover from that and use the weapon against him. “I mean—why did you walk out of the room the instant we were done?”

“I always do,” Potter said. He gave Draco a quick, wondering glance. “I understand why better now that I understand myself better, of course, but that doesn’t change things. I don’t want to spend time with someone who had to do that for me, either because of money or reluctantly. My Muggle lover who did it was uncomfortable because it was too extreme.”

“I wasn’t uncomfortable,” Draco said, and waited.

Potter let his nostrils flare open. “I was.”

“Uncomfortable enough not to do it with me again?” Draco took another risk, because he was so far along a strange and winding road that there seemed no reason not to do so. “I must admit, it would serve to settle and soothe and clarify my mind. Among other things, I’ve made no progress on the riddle with Weasley and Granger. The key doesn’t seem to be in the Ravenclaw common room, and that’s all we know.”

“I—I hadn’t thought ahead that far,” Potter said. “I hadn’t thought beyond the apology that I meant to make to Ron and Hermione.”

There would be reasons for him not to do so, Draco thought. He’s new to this life where he actually questions and criticizes and tries to understand his own actions, and he would be wary of thinking about the future.

That was no reason, of course, that Potter had to go without a lover. Indeed, perhaps he could use someone whose subtle guidance—not always as firm as it had to be in the bedroom—could help him ask questions and bear the answers in the other areas of his life.

And what would Draco get out of the arrangement?

Draco had to smile at that. Great fucking and the sheer intensity I felt with him is a good place to start.

“I suggest you go further,” he said, being careful not to phrase it as an order. Potter was more complex than some of the people Draco had heard about who needed someone to step in and claim control of every aspect of their lives. He had learned that yesterday when he had tried to command Potter with simple hard touches, and he prided himself on never needing the same lesson twice. “Think about solving the riddles in my company, and theirs. That’s not such a hard task for a beginning, is it?”

“Harder than you know,” Potter whispered. “I’m simultaneously ashamed and not of what I said to them. I don’t know what I should apologize for, exactly, and what I should stand firm on, except for one or two things.”

“Tell me,” Draco whispered back. “Let me help you.”

Potter’s eyes came up to him, wide and startled. Draco could see why, too; Potter thought Draco was likely to ask to fuck him, not help him. But this was part of the risk, part of the arrangement that Draco could see them coming to if everything worked out the way he sincerely hoped it would. So, instead of withdrawing, he raised his eyebrows and let Potter come to his own conclusions about where Draco would stand.

*

Harry could hardly believe that he was on the brink of making one of the most important decisions of his life in an alley in Hogsmeade. But then again, he had made a lot of important decisions in an upstairs room at the Three Broomsticks last night and this morning. That didn’t mean he had to go on putting things off.

At the same time, it was terrifying to lean on Malfoy. In a bedroom with his anger eating him alive otherwise, sure. Here?

Harry reminded himself, carefully, that there was no reason he couldn’t back out if it didn’t work. That was one thing he had learned recently, too: that he didn’t have to make one decision and stay with it forever and ever. He could think about forgiving Ron and Hermione. He could think about trusting Malfoy, and working with him to solve the riddles and keep Hogwarts free of Ministry influence.

Maybe. I still don’t see how that could be done.

But that was no reason not to take up Malfoy’s offer for the other things—always assuming that he could really trust Malfoy. He could use a voice that wasn’t his own to offer him advice, at least.

“All right,” Harry said, slowly, with difficulty, and met Malfoy’s eyes. “I know I should stand firm on refusing to have treatment for this. I did try that, talking with Mind-Healers and with Hermione. It didn’t work. I don’t want them to persuade me to ‘visit’ someone about this or make it a price of having their friendship back. If they don’t want me on my own terms, without a Mind-Healer’s name, then I’ll walk.”

Malfoy gave him a soft, pleased smile, and Harry felt as though someone had touched him gently in the region of his back where Malfoy had kept his hand when they walked away from Covington and Ron and Hermione at the lake the other day. He frowned. That could be dangerous, if his approval affects me so much.

Seemingly oblivious to what he was feeling, Malfoy continued, “And what else will you stand firm on?”

Harry lifted his shoulder in a half-shrug. “I don’t know. Other than that I don’t want them to talk more about how my sexuality is pathological. That’s all I can think of.”

“That’s a good list,” Malfoy said. “May I also suggest that you tell them you’ll work out whatever issues they may think you have with the help of people other than Mind-Healers? If you had friends that you thought you could speak to honestly about these things, without criticism, then it would go a long way towards helping you. They could be those friends, if only they could keep unhelpful opinions to themselves.” He paused, his eyes brightening. “And, of course, having a regular lover would help, too.”

Harry gave his head a little nervous toss that he couldn’t help. “If it gets that far,” he muttered.

“I should say that it would be more unlikely not to get that far,” Malfoy murmured, but didn’t explain what he meant when Harry gave him a challenging stare. “Tell them that. Will you let me come with you?”

A suggestion, a question. Not an order. Harry studied Malfoy in detail as he stood there, leaning elegantly against the wall—of course he did even that elegantly—and tried to understand him.

Malfoy only gave him that lovely smile and said nothing. Harry had to admit that he probably wouldn’t understand him without extensive experience, which of course he wouldn’t acquire without spending time with Malfoy.

The kind of time that regular lovers might spend together?

Harry refused to decide that right now. He nodded to Malfoy and said, “I want you to come with me. Please do so.”

Malfoy immediately stepped up to him, before Harry could consider whether or not he would or whether or not he wanted the git to, and touched his lips swiftly to Harry’s. Harry didn’t have time to react to the kiss before Malfoy whispered, “I hoped that you would say that,” and cupped the edge of his jaw with tentative fingers.

Harry had to make another decision in the next few moments, and he hoped that he made the right one. He stuck out his tongue to lap lightly at Malfoy’s fingers, waited until he heard the man catch his breath, and then nodded.

*

“Malfoy!” Granger was rising to her feet the moment the door to her and Weasley’s quarters opened, her eyes wide. “We didn’t know where you had gone. We were afraid that Covington had—Harry.”

The change was visible at once, Draco saw. Her eyes had been wide for him, but they were enormous for “Harry.” They quivered at the edges, and she reached out a hand and then abruptly tucked it behind her back as if fearing he would spurn it. She licked her lips and stared at him with an intensity that would have made Draco—and, he thought, most other sane people—back off.

But Potter had never been sane—luckily for Draco, or he probably wouldn’t have considered spending time with someone who had fucked him once. He gave an uncomfortable smile and muttered, “Hermione. Ron.”

Weasley was on his feet, and he looked as if he didn’t know where to touch Potter or not. “You have a lot of nerve, coming here,” he said.

“After you acted as though you wanted to reconcile with me?” Potter’s smile was twisted, and he leaned against the doorframe as if he were doing it to irritate his friends now. “Perhaps I should have listened to my instincts instead of my conscience after all.”

“He just means that we didn’t expect to see you in our rooms, after we failed to convince you in Malfoy’s, where you spend a lot of time,” Granger said dismissively. Draco wondered why Weasley nodded as if the explanation made sense. Even stranger, Potter returned a small nod of his own, and then stepped forwards to stand in front of her.

“First things first,” Potter said. “We all said some wrong things. We can argue for years about what those were, exactly. But I’m not going to get ‘help’ for the issues that you think I have, except from friends I actually trust, and you can give up that notion.”

Weasley and Granger exchanged glances. Granger ground her teeth in what Draco thought was genuine anguish. Well, it probably was when her whole identity depended on being able to tell other people what to do. But in the end, she inclined her head and murmured, “I agree.”

“And me, too,” Weasley said, when Potter switched his glare to him.

Potter gave a short nod. “Good. I would prefer not to discuss it at all, but we’ll need to do it if we’re going to resolve this argument.” He pulled a chair around from in front of Granger and sat down on it, though he at least turned it so that he was facing his friends over the back. Draco had the obscure sense that it would have been wrong for him to sit comfortably and normally with his friends as if nothing had ever happened. “Now. What did you feel I said and did that was most wrong?”

Weasley and Granger exchanged glances, which made Draco snort. This was the kind of topic that they would have discussed extensively among themselves beforehand. Draco knew them. They were the kind who lay awake at night spinning elaborate dreams and dramas about what would happen if their friend returned to them. Weasley and Granger were probably only surprised that their fantasy had so suddenly been transported into the real world, rather than shocked that it had happened.

“Insulting me,” Granger said finally. “Implying that I was—abnormal. Using information that I trusted you with against me.”

Draco raised his eyebrow. He had wondered for the barest moment whether he should leave them alone, but this was too interesting to miss. He hoped that no one would remember that he was here and make him leave. Granger and Weasley probably wouldn’t want an audience to their little eccentricities, whatever those were, but they were too focused on Potter to notice him right now.

“Yes, that was wrong of me,” Potter said, unflinching, dry-eyed. Draco thought he was the only one who noticed the way Potter’s fingers dug into the wood on the back of his chair. Weasley and Granger would be paying too much attention to his face. “I shouldn’t have turned on you even when you turned on me.”

“I never gave anyone details,” Granger said earnestly. “I only mentioned the problem in a general way to Mind-Healers, and they agreed that someone who had been abused the way you have should have found a healthier way to cope with it.”

Potter audibly ground his back teeth together, and then seemed to accept that his friends would have to talk about Mind-Healers in the present discussion. “Fine. But I would say that it was manipulation, Hermione, not abuse.”

“Dumbledore had no right to do that to you!” Granger leaned forwards as though straining to break out of the chair against chains, and Weasley nodded his support and put a hand on her shoulder. “It doesn’t matter if his plans turned out well. He was perfectly willing to sacrifice you, Harry! To let you die! Why do you keep acting as though what he did was forgivable, or, or excusable? You know that he would have let you die!”

“There was no other way, really,” Potter said, with a glance over his shoulder. He, at least, hadn’t forgotten their audience. “I accepted that once I understood the whole of it. I was angry, but the acceptance was more important.”

“He was powerful,” Weasley said, unexpectedly breaking into the conversation. “He was brilliant. He could have done something else if he really wanted to.”

Potter gave Weasley a piercing glance. “I know you understand everything, because I explained it to you,” he said. “What else could he have done? Given the time he died, and the things he didn’t know at the time? Could he have known that I would sacrifice myself, the puling little boy that I was in sixth year? Or did he have to let my convictions grow, taking intolerable risks all along the way?”

“You’re my friend,” Weasley whispered. “Any risk that wasn’t with your life would have been fine with me.”

Potter shook his head. Draco had to admit that he could see why his friends found him irritating, with that wise dark smirk on his lips, but it was the simple truth that Potter was wiser, as he proved with his next words. “And you would have been prone to risking your family the same way? And Hermione? And the world? And Hogwarts? And the future of any children you might have?”

Weasley bowed his head. Granger reached out and put her hand on his arm in reassurance the way Draco had seen her do earlier, then turned to Potter. “It still wasn’t fair that the whole burden should fall on you.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “I’ll make sure to tell fate that next time.”

Granger swelled up, but Potter sighed and gestured her to stand down before Draco make the suggestion himself. “Sorry, Hermione. But no, it wasn’t fair. But there was also nothing anyone could do about it. Dumbledore’s portrait told me that, too, that he wished I could have lived a normal life without Voldemort marking me, with my parents alive. I wish I could have lived with your friendship the past two years. But that’s not what happened. We either have to put up with that, or start expecting the universe to conform to our wishes. And we know it doesn’t do that.” He leaned forwards, smiling at Granger as if inviting her into some communion of enlightenment. “Don’t you?”

Granger gave him a miserable look and nodded slowly. “You’ll go on doing what you’re doing,” she said.

Draco rolled his eyes in turn. It amazed him that all Granger’s joy in getting her friend back seemed to be dimmed by the mere suspicion that he might continue letting someone else tie him to the bed.

“Yes,” Potter said. “That’s not negotiable.”

“But,” Granger said, and then left the word there, hanging in the wind between them, probably because she’d seen the look on Potter’s face.

This time, Weasley was the one who leaned down and stroked her shoulder soothingly. “Leave it,” he mouthed; Draco couldn’t hear a sound. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Draco sneered. No, you won’t, not without me beside him. It annoyed him that the Wonder Sidekicks could get what they wanted, and still push for more. Of course, they would probably never be satisfied until they had Potter locked in matrimony to the She-Weasel and the father of seven little brats of his own.

Not that that will happen.

“I am sorry,” Potter said. “I don’t think I said that enough.” He hesitated, then stood up and went forwards to embrace his friends. Granger whispered something Draco couldn’t hear into his ear as she stroked his hair. Weasley clapped him on the back and stood away, though Granger seemed content to hug him for much longer than that.

“We’ll manage it,” Granger said when he finally let her go, wiping her tears from her face with a sleeve. “We’ll come back together.”

Not exactly as you were, Draco thought, and would have said, if not for the glow deep down in Potter’s eyes.

*

“I can’t believe that it’s taking you this long to solve the riddle,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe that you tried the Ravenclaw common room, of all the obvious places.”

“Obvious places are sometimes the right ones,” Hermione said, in a voice he remembered.

Harry kept his eyes on the parchment that held the text of the riddle and tried to resist the warmth that crowded through him. He didn’t know if he was in the right place to appreciate it yet. He didn’t know if he should count his friendship with Ron and Hermione as having been restored yet. He didn’t think he’d suffered enough. What he had done but walk up, offer a few apologies and a few hugs, and then have them argue with him again a bit more before they got back to working on the riddle?

But maybe it doesn’t have to be all suffering.

Malfoy shifted beside him, and Harry shifted away before he thought about it. Then he took a deep breath and moved back. Malfoy had probably planted himself at Harry’s side on purpose so that any movement he made would be echoed in Harry’s body, but that didn’t mean Harry had to resent him.

Though he thought Malfoy was trying to say that he deserved to be part of Harry’s life, too, and deserved to have as much of his attention as Ron and Hermione.

I can’t, not right now, Harry thought, his eyes going to Ron. Ron still watched him with hope, and sometimes with puzzlement, as though he liked the sight of Harry standing there but didn’t know how it had happened. Harry wasn’t sure himself, for that matter. It’s not right yet. They need a lot more attention until it’s put right.

“Not this time, since you’ve tried and it wasn’t,” Harry said. He stroked the parchment and stepped back. “I think we ought to think more about who made these riddles. Snape and Dumbledore. What were they thinking about during that last year? What was on their minds as being lost?”

“It still has to be something precious to Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff,” Ron pointed out, an anxious look on his face. Harry knew that meant he had almost forgotten the fact himself a few times and meant to make sure that no one else did. Then Ron paused abruptly and tilted his head. “Unless the note refers to someone else named Rowena and someone else named Helga.”

“It can’t,” Malfoy interposed quietly. “I’ve already checked the student records for Hogwarts during the years that Dumbledore was Headmaster. One student named Rowena, who died when she was in her seventh year, and no Helga.”

Harry gave him a single intense look that he intended to convey gratitude, though he didn’t know if it did. Malfoy responded with a raised eyebrow and a burning glance that made Harry clear his throat and glance down.

“It could be someone other than a Hogwarts student,” Ron said, dogged but not defeated.

“I don’t think so,” Hermione said. “It’s a good suggestion, Harry. What was on their minds as being lost during the war? Hogwarts, of course. Freedom. Security. Rights for Muggleborns.” Harry would have missed the quick look she cast at Malfoy if he wasn’t watching. “What else?”

“Something precious to Ravenclaw, at the same time,” Ron said.

“What fools we’ve been,” Malfoy said softly.

Harry turned to him. “What?” he asked. Malfoy was staring at the wall, and his fingers were stroking the table where they had laid the text of the riddle. His eyes were bright and at the same time heavy-lidded, as if he was waking up from a deep sleep.

“Of course they were worried about what we might lose during the war,” Malfoy said. “Think of the sacrifices that both Severus and Dumbledore made to keep me from killing someone. It was what made Severus swear that poisonous Unbreakable Vow.” His eyes flared briefly, and Harry found himself wondering what Malfoy really thought and felt about the events of the year when he had been sixteen. It would be interesting to find out. “They didn’t want me to sacrifice my soul. But you could phrase that in another way. They didn’t want me to let the Dark Lord have dominion over the mind.”

“And Ravenclaw valued the mind,” Ron said, ending by punching one fist into the air.

“But where is the symbol of the minds that would have been lost?” Hermione asked.

And Harry knew, the answer coming home to him like a blow. He turned and met Malfoy’s eyes. Malfoy bowed his head in a shallow nod, leaving the speaking up to Harry.

“The Slytherin common room,” Harry said softly.

*

Draco leaned back against the door of the Slytherin common room and tried not to think about the last moments he had spent here, all those years ago. Of course he couldn’t help feeling some of the same sensations—his heart pounding beneath his ribs, his chest aching with every breath he drew, and his shoulders rippling and flexing as if he would heave himself out the door and run at any moment—but he could control them. The memories were still out of his head. Indeed, his mind felt perfectly blank.

Potter paused beside him and gave him a single sharp glance. “Are you all right?” he mouthed.

Draco nodded and stared back until Potter shrugged and stepped up to join his friends. Then Draco clasped his hands together and squeezed, watching in academic interest as his skin strained. He had not expected a panic attack like this, and he was not sure how to handle it. Why would coming back to the Slytherin common room affect him so, when a visit to the school hadn’t?

But he thought he knew when he could risk a glance at the mantle and the couches and the single window nearby. Potter, Weasley, and Granger were standing together in the middle of the room and discussing something in low voices. They didn’t pay attention to him, or to the way that his eyes had fixed on one couch in particular.

He’d sat there and thought about what would happen to him when he left the walls of the school, to live in a changed world.

His parents were in disgrace. He was in disgrace. He was desperately glad the Dark Lord hadn’t won, but that was a feeling of small comfort, really, when he thought about his own personal life. Yes, the Gryffindors had won and everyone else would live in harmony. But his future was no longer assured.

He had got past that moment. He had heaved himself to his feet and decided that he would study for a Potions mastery. And no one would get in the way, especially because he had Severus’s training behind him, and there would be no other student coming into the Potions program who would have the same advantage. He could do well there, for himself. And he had.

But now he was back in the same place, in the presence of the past, in the presence of the ghost who had made that decision.

Draco bowed his head and clenched his teeth down on the inside of his cheek until he could taste copper. He licked his lips and surged forwards to join Potter again. He could get past this, yes. He could. He would.

He would be of some use to solving this riddle the same way that he had been of some use to himself in the years since he had made his decision.

“All right,” Potter was saying. “So what does Hufflepuff value that could have a place here?” He turned around and surveyed the room thoughtfully. “It has to be something that has a fairly concrete existence. After all, Snape and Dumbledore couldn’t count on it being a small object that someone could remove easily, or a quality to the room that only a Slytherin student could be familiar with. They didn’t know that they would pick a Slytherin to solve the riddles.”

“Severus would have insisted on it,” Draco thought to say. The air seemed to clamp his mouth shut, and he touched his neck and cleared his throat a few times. Weasley and Granger both ignored him, but once again, he got a sharp glance from Potter.

“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean that he could have depended on it,” Granger said. “So, yes, Harry, I agree. It has to be an object. That doesn’t make it any easier to find, though.” She raked her fringe back from her forehead, or perhaps only some hair that was hanging in her eyes—Draco hadn’t paid enough attention to her before this to tell how her hair was styled—and sighed. “What could it be?”

Draco raised his head and turned it, trying to look at the room with unseeing eyes, the same way that any stranger would. But Weasley was doing the same thing, and having no luck. Perhaps it needed the eye of a friend after all. Draco cleared his throat again and sharpened his gaze.

The couches were too temporary. The walls were a possibility, in that they were as inflexible as the loyalty that Hufflepuff would have valued, but Draco didn’t fancy their chances of moving along them, tapping and searching, and trying to find the right combination of spells or taps by sheer luck. The floor was also a possibility, but Draco didn’t think they could dig into it without releasing water, something Severus would have taken account of.

Then his gaze fastened in one place, and he smiled without humor.

“Ravenclaw valued the mind, we decided,” he said. “Hufflepuff could be said to value a certain part of the body, too—the heart.” He let his finger stick out ahead of him and narrowed his vision down it, hoping that it wouldn’t become tunnel vision and he wouldn’t fall over.

The hearth.

Potter raised his eyebrows and then nodded slowly. “We haven’t gone close enough to be a threat yet,” he said, drawing his wand. “There could be a trap waiting there that will trigger and involve us in this fight to the death.”

“Wait a minute,” Granger said, her voice rising. “I didn’t hear you say anything about that. What trap? What fight to the death?”

“Dumbledore and Snape protected the riddles and the keywords with various guardians,” Potter said. His body was dropping into a hunting crouch, his eyes aimed straight ahead. Draco had never seen him look as intense, except inside the bedroom, and now he had to be almost grateful for the surge of feeling and memory that raced through him and drowned the other, inappropriate surge of old panic. “Water-snakes in the lake. A centaur with arrows that called your darkness to the surface in the Forest. That was what finally gave me the courage to come to you,” he added, with a smile over his shoulder at Granger. “I had to think about everything I’d been trying to put aside.”

“Oh,” Granger said softly, and stared at the floor. Again Weasley put the comforting hand on her shoulder, and Draco knew what she was thinking as plainly as if she had said it. I thought you had come back on your own.

Draco rolled his eyes. It appeared that it didn’t matter how much Granger received, including gifts that she’d had no reason to think she would get. She still wanted more—wanted them given more willingly, or more generously, or in different proportions. Draco made a mental note to never get her a gift.

Not that I need spend time around her once this is over.

And then he remembered his promise to Potter, or Potter’s promise to him, and sighed in vexation. He drew his wand, redirecting his attention back to the hearth. An enemy he could fight was looking better all the time.

“Stay back, Ron, Hermione,” Potter said, his eyes wide with excitement. “We don’t know what might come out of there.” He glanced back once, seemed astonished to find that Draco wasn’t at his side, and motioned him up to join in with one impatient hand.

Draco had never felt as tempted to chuckle in his life as he did when joining Potter. But he managed to hold it inside. The fixed expression on Granger’s face and the startled blinks from Weasley were perfect without his laughter.

“Ready?” Potter murmured. “It’s probably going to come straight from the center of—”

“The center of the hearth, of course, because that’s the place where the fire blazes and the heart of the common room is,” Draco finished, nodding his head, astonished himself by how easy it was to fall into communion with Potter.

Potter smiled at him and then lashed forwards with one arm, casting a spell out in front of him like that looked like a red fishing wire. Draco watched with critical eyes as it vanished into the spot in the stone where he remembered the great logs gathering. He wondered how Potter had known that, but then, the Gryffindor and Slytherin fireplaces might not be as different from each other as other aspects of the rooms were.

For a few seconds, silence hovered between them, or so it seemed. In reality, Draco could hear the harsh breathing of Granger and Weasley behind him, and the taut hum of magic through Potter’s wand, but he and Potter stood together in a bubble of silence nevertheless.

And then the stone wall at the back of the fireplace exploded inwards, and Potter turned and dipped a shoulder, seeming to catch the line of magic that spiraled back towards him and draw it into a spool.

Draco’s eyes couldn’t make sense of the beast that reared towards them at first, made of dazzling shadows and edges and eyes of flame, and then he recognized it and felt foolish. A dragon. Of course. What else would you expect to come out of the fire?

The dragon was smaller than any he had seen, heavier, its body looking as it if was made of carved stone. It landed on the floor with a thump and stared at them, neck swaying back and forth. The impression of being made of shadow and light, Draco saw, had come from its eyes and wings, both of which were illuminated from within by deep reds and golds, cooler greens and silvers.

“Does that resemble a real dragon in your eyes?” Potter murmured, taking a step back so that he was precisely beside Draco and could murmur into his ear more easily.

Draco shook his head. “Those scales are stone, though,” he said. “They’re going to be as hard as stone to get through, too.”

“I knew that,” Potter said.

Draco didn’t think it worth commenting on again, if that was the mood Potter wanted to be in. He lifted his wand and called a spell to mind that made the end of it fizz and spark. The dragon locked its eyes on them and flexed its claws in the floor, which resulted in long strips of stone ripping out and curling around its talons.

“For the honor of Gryffindor House!” Weasley said, suddenly and loudly, and leaped past both Draco and Potter at the dragon as if he had something to prove. Perhaps he just feels the need to impress his wife, Draco thought, before his brain caught up to reality and he realized that he couldn’t let this simply happen.

“Weasley!” he bellowed, and leaped after him. Potter was right next to him, his own cry wordless but so loud that Draco was convinced—and comforted—that they both felt the same thing.

The dragon jerked its head back and breathed on Weasley when he landed in front of it. The flames danced like ordinary fire when they first came into the air, but then locked into tangled, thorny curls of rock around Weasley’s legs. He crashed to the ground, still managing to fire off a spell that the dragon danced easily away from. And then he groaned, and his face turned pale. At the same time, Draco heard the dry snap that he knew usually signaled a limb breaking.

Trust Weasley to land in exactly the right way for that, Draco thought. The only good thing was that the git had shown them what the dragon’s fire could do, and Draco was no longer inclined to underestimate it.

Potter circled around to the side, eyes narrowed and brilliant, like the gemstones that the dragon’s wings resembled. He tried a spell that crackled out like lightning and seemed to have much the same effect, at least if the scorch mark on the dragon’s side was any indication. The dragon roared and spat another curl of flame. Potter lifted a Shield Charm, which blocked the fire, and then the pebble that the fire became, as it would have blocked any ordinary spell.

A second useful thing to know, Draco decided, and then launched the Dark Arts spell burning on his tongue, because getting in trouble with the Ministry through Granger’s good offices was the last thing he could worry about right now.

“Torno!”

The dragon began abruptly to turn in a circle, its head flowing over its back, its wings tangling around its body. Draco grinned. “Focus on spells that aren’t meant to harm the skin!” he yelled over his shoulder at Potter. “They work just fine!”

Potter nodded and did something nonverbal that made the dragon lose contact with the floor. It twisted in the air, still caught in the torturing force of Draco’s spell, but also turned upside-down and flailed and jerked and tried to fly and spat its fire and in general made a fool of itself. Potter stepped back and gestured with his wand in a flourish to Draco, all too clearly indicating what he wanted: to see Draco take a turn.

Draco did, choosing a spell that, most of the time, would break the bones in a specific part of a victim’s body. This didn’t do the same thing—of course not, since the dragon had no bones—but it did crack loose a large part of the stone carapace on the head. That clanged to the floor and left a missing chunk in the neck, which bled a dark, oily liquid like heavy smoke.

Potter took it up again, and this time managed a spell that popped the dragon’s jewel-like eyes out. They rolled on the floor, and Draco heard a cry of disgust from behind him. It could have been Weasley or Granger or both at once.

He didn’t turn to look. What mattered was the peculiar joy thrumming through him and the laughter that bubbled out of his mouth when he listened—the laughter and the joy that came from the chance of working together with Potter.

As an experiment, he tried a spell that was supposed to press and preserve butterflies for Potions ingredients. The dragon tumbled over and over, writhing in what Draco would have said was pain if he didn’t know better, and then its wings flew out to the side. For a moment, they hovered in the air like the panes of stained glass windows. Then they crashed to the floor and became dust and powder, much the way that crushed insect wings would.

Potter was next, and he detached the dragon’s feet and turned them into useless ornaments.

Draco sheared its head off its body, and it continued spluttering and spitting fire from the broken neck for some moments before the strange life left it. It was only a statue now, and Draco lowered it back to the ground and shook his head, panting. Sweat soaked his forehead and tingled under his arms, and he felt far more exhausted than he would have thought he could from a bit of minor sparring. Perhaps this was the way that Aurors felt all the time.

He turned to the side, and Potter was there, eyes as large as moons, teeth bared in a smile as brilliant as the scowl he’d worn earlier.

“That was wonderful,” he said, and clapped Draco on the shoulder the way that he might have his best mate Weasley. “Well done.”

Draco reached out and caught the hand, pressing down on the wrist bone the way he had the other day when he’d wanted to draw Potter’s attention. He wasn’t a best mate, no matter what Potter might think at the moment and no matter how many battles they fought together, and he wouldn’t be treated like one.

Potter’s eyes widened, then drooped almost shut. He nodded as though catching the silent message Draco gave, and stooped nearer.

“Later,” he whispered. “We have to find the riddle and the keyword first.” And he turned away and took a step to the side, with the clear expectation that Draco would let him go.

Draco did, because he had no choice. But he kept his eyes on him, and he didn’t think it was his imagination that Potter began to search the hearth with his back always oriented on Draco, knowing where he was and what happened when he changed his position.

“A little help here, please?”

Draco started and whirled around. Granger was trying to wrestle her husband back to his feet and out of the stone coils of the dragon’s frozen flame, and looking exasperated and hurt at the same time, as if she thought that Potter should have hurried over to help her. Draco shook his head a bit and stepped up.

“That leg is broken,” he said, studying Weasley’s right limb with an eye that had a bit of Healer’s experience. His regular clients tended to come to him before they went to St. Mungo’s, trusting him to spot what was wrong more easily. “We should move him up to the hospital wing.”

“Yes, of course we should,” Granger said, and conjured a stretcher. She kept shooting little betrayed looks at Potter, though, who was on his knees and rooting among the ashes, and Draco wondered how much longer it would be before they heard about it.

“Found it!” Potter turned around, a large globe that looked like glass but couldn’t be cupped in his palms. Squinting, Draco could make out two small pieces of parchment tied together in what looked like a ball inside it.

“Good,” Granger said. “Then you can help us get Ron to the hospital wing.”

Potter’s face was full of chagrin at once. He cast the globe at Draco and dashed over to his best friend, muttering something that might have been an apology.

Draco didn’t care about that. What he cared about was that, when he reached out and pressed his hand hard enough into Potter’s arm to leave red fingermarks, Potter pressed back.