![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lomonaaerenRemember, DH SPOILERS in this story!
Thank you again for all the reviews!
Chapter Eleven—A United Front
The letter was as simple and clear as Harry could make it, even understated. He’d thought on each of the words, pounded them out in his mind before setting them down on parchment, and then sent the letter by owl to Draco before he sent it on to the Daily Prophet. He wanted to make sure he was writing only words that Draco would agree to and approve of.
In the end, this was the letter that went to the Daily Prophet, to Narcissa Malfoy, to the Ministry, to Ron and Hermione, to Esther Goldstein’s family, and to everyone else who could have an interest:
To all who may have heard that Harry Potter believes Draco Malfoy guilty of murder:
It is not true. I am continuing my investigation into the murder at Draco Malfoy’s side. I have questioned him under Veritaserum as to his guilt and am satisfied with his answers. Despite the sins of his past and his family, which I would no more deny than he would, his is not a killer’s soul.
Harry Potter.
That released, Harry sat back and waited for the storm.
*
Draco spent the morning with his son, enchanting a toy soldier so that it marched around the room just ahead of Scorpius, who chased it and again and again demanded the incantation from his father. Draco repeated the spell patiently for him, and listened in delight as Scorpius tried to cast it. God knew if he would manage to achieve the spell without even a practice wand, but it was harmless enough, and it would provide a good conduit for his accidental magic if it came bursting out.
When Scorpius fell over from his toddling and nearly landed on his tailbone, Draco’s spells were there to save him from such an undignified pain. Scorpius didn’t seem to notice; he went back to chasing the soldier. Whenever Draco let him catch it, he picked it up, stared at its feet, and repeated the Latin words with the wrong emphasis and more than half the wrong syllables.
I wish I could live like that, Draco thought, his heart pounding with an odd mixture of love for and envy of his son, so protected that I don’t even know I’m protected.
But wasn’t that what he was almost doing now? He had hidden in the nursery, and had the house-elves fetch him and Scorpius breakfast there, so that he didn’t have to see the Daily Prophet or hear his wife’s taunting remarks immediately. He had to gather his strength. Or so he told himself, while the old familiar voice in his head laughed at his own refusal to acknowledge his cowardice.
But at last Narcissa intruded, with a smile and coo at Scorpius, and a stern look at Draco. Draco gave a small nod, and reached out a hand for the paper she was insistent on handing him.
“Did you come up with this letter together, or is it Potter’s notion?” his mother asked, staring at him as Draco’s eyes fell on the front page.
“Both of ours,” said Draco, staring at the headline in awe. It seemed the Prophet was just as eager to turn on its anonymous informants as anyone else, if the other side offered a better story. The headline screamed, in letters bigger than those the paper had used to announce the “proof” of Draco’s guilt:
MALFOY NOT GUILTY, POTTER SAYS!
Beneath that was printed Harry’s letter, and then the writer’s slavish support, devoid even of Skeeter’s usual spin; whoever had written this was a clear Potter fan. Of course the writers and the staff of the Daily Prophet had never believed the trumped-up evidence of Draco’s guilt, the article said. A scrap of cloth the only link between the murder and any Malfoy? How much more obvious and childish a clue could there be? Whoever had done this had counted heavily on the Ministry’s willingness to believe the worst of any past Death Eater, and had forgotten that some people in the wizarding world—by which, Draco deduced, the writer meant Potter—would never just accept everything credulously.
First hurdle passed, Draco thought as he folded the paper and stood, suddenly finding that he had an appetite after all. They accepted the letter. Now I suppose the interview with the Aurors will be next, or owls from Esther Goldstein’s family. But at least I won’t face them alone.
Perhaps that simple fact shouldn’t have made him feel so much better. Yet it did.
*
Harry smiled grimly as the fire flared green, but finished reading the story to Al, perched on his knee, before he rose. Al cocked his head when he did, and grabbed the front of his robe in both hands.
“Where are we going, Daddy?” he managed. Quiet and shy as he was, he spoke better than James when he really put his mind to it.
Harry started to detach his son’s hands gently, but then paused. The fire flaring green had been Ron’s signal that Aurors were on their way to Malfoy Manor, and he had been planning to leave immediately—Ginny didn’t have practice today, and the children would be fine with her—and stand at Draco’s side when the Aurors arrived. But why couldn’t he take Albus? If Ginny agreed, of course. Would the Aurors dare do something less than honorable in front of an innocent child?
He thought the chances were at least lessened. And, if one looked ahead to the future, he thought he could soften both Ginny’s antagonism and Ron and Hermione’s growing wonder if he let Al and Scorpius become acquainted. It would certainly make his future friendship with Draco easier if they had something to talk about when the curses were lifted and the life-debts fulfilled.
“We’re going to Malfoy Manor, Al,” he said, and swung the small boy around so that he perched on Harry’s hip. “That place I’ve gone in the mornings for a little while now. You remember that I told you about Draco Malfoy?”
Al nodded seriously. He recognized the name, though he probably didn’t remember the stories that well. Harry knew that he couldn’t ask overmuch of a two-year-old.
“Well, there’s a boy there, your age,” he said, and watched Al’s eyes light up. Though he adored both Teddy and James, Al had suffered his share of teasing from them about his age. A friend two years old would make him feel better, Harry knew. “His name’s Scorpius.”
“I want to meet him,” said Al, and the hold of his hands on Harry’s robes became more determined than ever.
That made it easier for Harry to talk Ginny into letting Al go with him. She didn’t like it, but when Harry explained, quietly, that Scorpius was just Al’s age, and that it would be important and interesting for their son to play with someone other than Teddy, James, and Rose, she gave a resigned nod. “Bring him back safe, you hear?” she did murmur into his ear as she kissed his cheek.
“Of course,” Harry said, a bit insulted that she would think he wouldn’t lay down his life to defend Al, if that became necessary.
“And come back safe yourself.” She drew back long enough to dart him a serious glance.
Harry nodded, and then cast a spell that would prevent Al from becoming nauseated—a common problem the first time a child traveled by Floo—and confidently cast a handful of powder into the fireplace, knowing the connection to Malfoy Manor would be open for him. Al was a warm weight against his chest as he stepped forwards, and Harry curled himself protectively down, until his chin brushed his son’s hair. Al laughed, then coughed as soot caught in his throat.
Harry had the oddest sensation as they whirled away. It was as if he were carrying his past to meet his future. Which was nonsense, because really, both Al and Draco were two pieces of his present.
And there was another sensation that was familiar, and which he didn’t like at all. The scars on his forehead, his chest, and the back of his hand throbbed steadily, softly, mercilessly.
*
Draco would have given a great deal to see the expression on the Aurors’ faces when they strode through the front doors of the Manor and found his mother waiting with tea ready for them. But he had to remain in the nursery, near the back of the Manor, until his mother called for him. It was one thing for Narcissa Malfoy, mistress of social courtesies and not a suspect herself, to anticipate the Ministry’s schedule; it would seem too suspicious if Draco was also waiting for them, as if he had insider knowledge.
Which he did, thanks to Ron Weasley. But one did not betray such things.
He straightened Scorpius’s dress robe with one fussy hand. Of course the house-elves had dressed him, and of course they had done a seemingly perfect job, but Draco would rather have cut off his left hand than let his son go out with dirty clothes, and in his wandering Scorpius had run against his cot and smeared a small amount of dust over the hems.
“You never stop thinking about clothes, do you, Malfoy?”
Draco felt something within him relax as the deep voice spoke from behind him. He had known Harry was coming, but—well, he had not been certain when he would arrive, that was all. He had not really been anxious that he wouldn’t show up. Once a Gryffindor made a promise, he stuck to it.
“Just think of the social influence and friends you could win if you did the same thing,” he drawled, and then scooped up Scorpius and turned around, eager to see the way Harry’s face would soften when he caught sight of the boy.
Except that Harry carried a bundle of his own, and his face both softened and became expectant, as he awaited Draco’s reaction to his son.
Draco couldn’t do much but stare. The boy lacked the lightning bolt scar that would have made Harry distinctive even at two, of course, but the messy black hair and green eyes were the same. Harry’s son resembled him at least as closely as Scorpius resembled Draco—and more legitimately, Draco thought with a small stab of envy, since he was sure Harry had worked no magic to change the baby’s eye or hair color.
“Draco Malfoy,” Harry murmured, “my son, Albus Severus Potter.” The little head tilted back and the small mouth frowned at his father, showing that the boy didn’t like his full name. “We call him Al,” Harry added, and the puckered mouth relaxed. “And this is Draco Malfoy, Al, and his son Scorpius.”
“Is he my age?” Al demanded in a reedier voice than Draco had expected; the boy was slightly larger than Scorpius. “You said he was my age.”
“You’re two, Scorpius, aren’t you?” Harry asked, and Draco appreciated the way Harry directed his attention at his son, instead of waiting for the adult who held him to answer.
“Yes, I am,” said Scorpius, with impeccable politeness, and then he reached out an arm. Draco carried him across the room to take hold of Al’s hand, since he didn’t want him running about on the carpet and getting his robes dirty again. Scorpius stared curiously at the other boy, but never wavered, and Al gripped him back the same way, staring slightly at him too, as if, now that he saw him, someone else his own age was a miracle too startling to be swallowed all at once.
Harry muffled a chuckle. Draco glanced at him, and saw his green eyes burning with a pride and pleasure and joy that made Draco’s knees weak. To cover it, he coughed and looked down at the boys. “You think they’ll soften the Aurors?” he murmured.
“That,” said Harry easily, “and I’ve been promising Al a friend his own age forever. Thought they’d both appreciate it—and in the future, we can talk about them when we can’t think of anything else.”
Maybe it was stupid, but Draco wasn’t one to let a challenge like that pass by. “I don’t think we’ll ever run out of interesting things to talk about,” he said, and flashed his teeth in an expression that Harry could mistake for a smile if he really wanted to. “Not when decades have passed.”
*
Harry snorted. “You’re probably right,” he said, firmly quashing his fear of any relationship with Draco lasting that long. He might live to a great age, and Draco might, too, and their sons would outlive them. He nudged Al, and pulled his son along so that his hand would separate from Scorpius’s. “We need to go out and talk to some people from the Ministry now, Al,” he said.
Al’s face took on a stubbornness that made Harry want to groan. Lily was the good child, James the stubborn one, Al the shy one, he and Ginny were prone to say, but when Al really wanted something, he could make his brother look as yielding as river water. “Want to hold Scorpius’s hand,” he said, and tightened his grip, as if to say that Harry would have to rip him away before he would let go.
“Me too,” said Scorpius, “Don’t want to let you go.” And he glanced up at his father with wide, appealing eyes that Harry was sure Draco had given in to many times, and then cursed himself for giving in to. He glanced at Draco, expecting to see the familiar eye-roll of any frustrated parent.
Draco, though, looked as if he had had a large dose of his favorite cream. “Quite proper, Scorpius,” he said. “We should never let go of our friends.” And he shifted closer to Harry, so that the boys could more easily hold hands—and his shoulder leaned against Harry’s. His eyes were full of challenges that hadn’t been in his voice, darting through his expression like clouds.
Harry returned his gaze for long moments, then inclined his head. Yes, this was more than just an image for the Ministry to gape at. This was a connection that would endure when the mystery and the Ministry’s harassment of the Malfoys was a distant memory.
Draco’s face was molten with joy when he smiled like that. Harry turned carefully away, lest he be thought to be staring too long. His friendship with Draco had to be a little more careful than his friendship with anyone else.
I hope that Al can have a bond with Scorpius that’s less complicated.
“Shall we?” he asked, over the sound of Al telling Scorpius the story of how he’d nearly crashed his broom into a tree.
“Let’s,” Draco said, and it didn’t matter that he was looking away; Harry could still feel the voice pouring into him like warm water.
*
Draco had never seen quite so many Aurors with dropped jaws, or thought to see quite so many. He smirked and kept his eyes trained carefully ahead, as though it were perfectly normal for him to be entering his drawing room with Harry Potter at his side and their sons clasped hand-in-hand, chattering to and sometimes interrupting each other with grave childish voices.
It was normal, or it would be. Draco savored the happiness of that as a silent sweet inside himself, as he sat down in one of two chairs standing comfortably close together. Harry arranged himself easily in the other, adjusting his son and absently wiping away a bit of drool from Al’s chin. Draco clamped his jaw tight to avoid laughing aloud. Let these men and women, tall and stern in dark robes, stand up to that.
“Mr. Potter,” said their apparent leader, a plump witch with very red cheeks who reminded Draco of Molly Weasley—unpleasantly so, though at least she didn’t have red hair. She didn’t bother to look directly at Draco before she focused on Harry. “I understand that you’ve reversed your former position on Mr. Malfoy’s guilt.”
“That position was never mine,” Harry said smoothly, and then smiled up at her, a narrow expression that Draco thought he might have practiced on overeager fans and impertinent newspaper reporters for years. “If someone had thought to owl me before quoting that letter as mine, I could have made that clearer for them.” He paused, as though trying to think of why it hadn’t happened, and then gave a shrug, as relaxed as every other gesture he’d made so far. “A shame they didn’t.”
“Then—“ The witch shook her head, as if coping with Harry’s denial was beyond her. Or as if her every plan had depended on not finding Harry Potter here, Draco thought, occupying himself with fussing over Scorpius’s hair so that he wouldn’t howl aloud with triumph.
“I never believed Draco Malfoy guilty,” Harry said. “That letter printed this morning in the Daily Prophet, and sent to a few other people who needed to know about it, is the truth. I am continuing the investigation at Mr. Malfoy’s side. When I find the truth, then I’ll let you know.”
“Mr. Malfoy had refused to take Veritaserum from our hands,” the witch said stiffly. “We had no reason to think that he was telling the truth.”
“He could not be sure that you would not use the information against him,” said Harry, and he leaned forwards. Draco saw the expression he privately called Harry’s “charging lion” look appear on his face. He had seen it directed against him often enough. Never had he thought he would see it deployed in defense of him. “Or fish for other things that you had no right to know. Mr. Malfoy has confessed the Ministry’s harassment to me. Many Aurors, he has said, would hound him for the crimes of his father when he had no part in committing them.”
“He’s a Malfoy!” a younger Auror burst out from the back. “How can you trust him, Mr. Potter?” His voice was a limping little lost thing, Draco realized in contempt; in particular, he seemed to find the lack of an additional title for Harry distasteful. There’s someone who was just itching for him to become an Auror, Draco thought. “I know that you fought with him all through school. Rita Skeeter’s biography of you says that you slapped away his hand when you first met, and now—“
Harry surged to his feet, though he never rose high enough to pull Al’s fingers from Scorpius’s. The expression on his face had changed again, this time to something like a thundercloud, and Draco felt a faint vibration move through the walls and the pictures on those walls. He was momentarily glad that there were no portraits in this room, his Malfoy ancestors would have objected to being rattled around by Harry’s magic.
The young Auror seemed to have realized he’d gone too far, and swallowed audibly. The rosy-cheeked witch tried to intervene, but Harry interrupted before she could, speaking softly and passionately.
“Every word that Rita Skeeter has written about me is a damn lie. I didn’t get along with Draco in school, that’s true. But the boy is not the man. The man learned hard lessons during the war, and suffered more than any of you in here, I’ll be bound.” His voice deepened into a hiss, near enough Parseltongue that Draco saw a few of the Aurors shiver. Harry stalked forwards now, gently parting Al from his friend. The boy didn’t protest; he was looking up at his father in wonder. Draco realized with a start that Harry was positioning himself between Draco and the Aurors, as if he thought they would charge en masse and wanted to be ready to defend Draco. He didn’t have his wand drawn, but he didn’t need one. Holding a child in his arms, he was still stronger than any other wizard present, and they all knew it. “And he’s kept quiet since then, not trying to take advantage of the old Malfoy prestige, not consorting with any remaining Death Eaters or the pure-blood supremacists that I know some of you have ties to.” It was just a guess, since a group near this size—there were fifteen Aurors in the room—probably included some involved in the wizarding world’s most bitter political dispute, but an educated one. Draco saw cheeks flush, and eyes fall. “I would swear to his truthfulness with my honor, on my word, on my life. Draco Malfoy is my friend, and you’ll have better proof than you do before you pretend that I support your arresting him.”
Draco swallowed a few times. He had to make a contribution of his own now, one that he hadn’t told Harry about, but felt moved to make, given how bravely Harry was defending him. Still, he needed a moment to recover from all the emotions that stormed through him.
Harry had protected him. Harry had stood as strongly at his side as he had ever stood by one of the Weasleys. Harry had made even his lack of ambition in the previous ten years look good.
Draco could do no less than be worthy of such shining words.
“As long as Harry can stay,” he interrupted quietly, “I’ll take the Veritaserum.”
*
Harry pivoted around, seeking out Draco’s eyes. He didn’t want Draco to do this merely to satisfy the Aurors. They didn’t deserve to be satisfied, and wouldn’t until they followed a due process of law and courtesy.
What he saw in Draco’s face reassured him, though, as did the small nod and the mouthed Yes he received a moment later. Yes, Draco wanted this. And he didn’t fear the answers he might give as long as Harry remained in the same room with him so that the Aurors didn’t abuse the privilege.
The witch who led them was entirely unnerved. She licked her lips, and then drew out the Veritaserum from a pocket of her robes. She gave Harry a glance before she proceeded. Harry stared hard at her, and stepped out of the way.
He wondered idly if she realized that by granting him so much power and importance, she’d let him win.
The questions the Aurors asked took up the better part of an hour. They asked about Esther Goldstein’s murder every way they possibly could, and still Draco steadily refused to give them anything but the truth—that he hadn’t murdered the girl, and in fact had never heard of her until the killing appeared in the papers. When one of the Aurors tried to ask about something else, such as a young and stupid one who said he had a right to know what Draco had done during the war, Harry leaned forwards and stared. That cut said questions right off.
Luckily, no one asked if Draco had remained in his room that entire night. When asked where he was, he said, “At home,” and that was enough.
Harry was peripherally aware that Narcissa had come back into the room during the interrogation, but he didn’t dare turn away to acknowledge her, knowing the Aurors were just waiting for such an excuse. When the rosy-cheeked witch, her hands shaking now with frustration, capped the Veritaserum and put it away, Harry stood, shifted Al to the side, held out his hand, and gave her a smile with all his teeth in.
“I hope you’ve learned what you need to know,” he said.
She stared back at him as she shook his hand. “Someday, Potter,” she said, “you won’t be here.”
Harry let his magic and his anger gather in his eyes, and she turned and led the others hastily out.
Draco started to stand, his eyes and smile brilliant. Harry’s breath caught as he looked at him.
Narcissa interrupted before he could speak. “Draco,” she said, and her voice was pale and colorless and made Harry turn in a moment.
Her face was a match for her voice. She stood with her hands folded precisely in front of her and enunciated every word clearly. “Marian is missing, and there is blood splattered all over her room.”
Chapter 12.
Thank you again for all the reviews!
Chapter Eleven—A United Front
The letter was as simple and clear as Harry could make it, even understated. He’d thought on each of the words, pounded them out in his mind before setting them down on parchment, and then sent the letter by owl to Draco before he sent it on to the Daily Prophet. He wanted to make sure he was writing only words that Draco would agree to and approve of.
In the end, this was the letter that went to the Daily Prophet, to Narcissa Malfoy, to the Ministry, to Ron and Hermione, to Esther Goldstein’s family, and to everyone else who could have an interest:
To all who may have heard that Harry Potter believes Draco Malfoy guilty of murder:
It is not true. I am continuing my investigation into the murder at Draco Malfoy’s side. I have questioned him under Veritaserum as to his guilt and am satisfied with his answers. Despite the sins of his past and his family, which I would no more deny than he would, his is not a killer’s soul.
Harry Potter.
That released, Harry sat back and waited for the storm.
*
Draco spent the morning with his son, enchanting a toy soldier so that it marched around the room just ahead of Scorpius, who chased it and again and again demanded the incantation from his father. Draco repeated the spell patiently for him, and listened in delight as Scorpius tried to cast it. God knew if he would manage to achieve the spell without even a practice wand, but it was harmless enough, and it would provide a good conduit for his accidental magic if it came bursting out.
When Scorpius fell over from his toddling and nearly landed on his tailbone, Draco’s spells were there to save him from such an undignified pain. Scorpius didn’t seem to notice; he went back to chasing the soldier. Whenever Draco let him catch it, he picked it up, stared at its feet, and repeated the Latin words with the wrong emphasis and more than half the wrong syllables.
I wish I could live like that, Draco thought, his heart pounding with an odd mixture of love for and envy of his son, so protected that I don’t even know I’m protected.
But wasn’t that what he was almost doing now? He had hidden in the nursery, and had the house-elves fetch him and Scorpius breakfast there, so that he didn’t have to see the Daily Prophet or hear his wife’s taunting remarks immediately. He had to gather his strength. Or so he told himself, while the old familiar voice in his head laughed at his own refusal to acknowledge his cowardice.
But at last Narcissa intruded, with a smile and coo at Scorpius, and a stern look at Draco. Draco gave a small nod, and reached out a hand for the paper she was insistent on handing him.
“Did you come up with this letter together, or is it Potter’s notion?” his mother asked, staring at him as Draco’s eyes fell on the front page.
“Both of ours,” said Draco, staring at the headline in awe. It seemed the Prophet was just as eager to turn on its anonymous informants as anyone else, if the other side offered a better story. The headline screamed, in letters bigger than those the paper had used to announce the “proof” of Draco’s guilt:
MALFOY NOT GUILTY, POTTER SAYS!
Beneath that was printed Harry’s letter, and then the writer’s slavish support, devoid even of Skeeter’s usual spin; whoever had written this was a clear Potter fan. Of course the writers and the staff of the Daily Prophet had never believed the trumped-up evidence of Draco’s guilt, the article said. A scrap of cloth the only link between the murder and any Malfoy? How much more obvious and childish a clue could there be? Whoever had done this had counted heavily on the Ministry’s willingness to believe the worst of any past Death Eater, and had forgotten that some people in the wizarding world—by which, Draco deduced, the writer meant Potter—would never just accept everything credulously.
First hurdle passed, Draco thought as he folded the paper and stood, suddenly finding that he had an appetite after all. They accepted the letter. Now I suppose the interview with the Aurors will be next, or owls from Esther Goldstein’s family. But at least I won’t face them alone.
Perhaps that simple fact shouldn’t have made him feel so much better. Yet it did.
*
Harry smiled grimly as the fire flared green, but finished reading the story to Al, perched on his knee, before he rose. Al cocked his head when he did, and grabbed the front of his robe in both hands.
“Where are we going, Daddy?” he managed. Quiet and shy as he was, he spoke better than James when he really put his mind to it.
Harry started to detach his son’s hands gently, but then paused. The fire flaring green had been Ron’s signal that Aurors were on their way to Malfoy Manor, and he had been planning to leave immediately—Ginny didn’t have practice today, and the children would be fine with her—and stand at Draco’s side when the Aurors arrived. But why couldn’t he take Albus? If Ginny agreed, of course. Would the Aurors dare do something less than honorable in front of an innocent child?
He thought the chances were at least lessened. And, if one looked ahead to the future, he thought he could soften both Ginny’s antagonism and Ron and Hermione’s growing wonder if he let Al and Scorpius become acquainted. It would certainly make his future friendship with Draco easier if they had something to talk about when the curses were lifted and the life-debts fulfilled.
“We’re going to Malfoy Manor, Al,” he said, and swung the small boy around so that he perched on Harry’s hip. “That place I’ve gone in the mornings for a little while now. You remember that I told you about Draco Malfoy?”
Al nodded seriously. He recognized the name, though he probably didn’t remember the stories that well. Harry knew that he couldn’t ask overmuch of a two-year-old.
“Well, there’s a boy there, your age,” he said, and watched Al’s eyes light up. Though he adored both Teddy and James, Al had suffered his share of teasing from them about his age. A friend two years old would make him feel better, Harry knew. “His name’s Scorpius.”
“I want to meet him,” said Al, and the hold of his hands on Harry’s robes became more determined than ever.
That made it easier for Harry to talk Ginny into letting Al go with him. She didn’t like it, but when Harry explained, quietly, that Scorpius was just Al’s age, and that it would be important and interesting for their son to play with someone other than Teddy, James, and Rose, she gave a resigned nod. “Bring him back safe, you hear?” she did murmur into his ear as she kissed his cheek.
“Of course,” Harry said, a bit insulted that she would think he wouldn’t lay down his life to defend Al, if that became necessary.
“And come back safe yourself.” She drew back long enough to dart him a serious glance.
Harry nodded, and then cast a spell that would prevent Al from becoming nauseated—a common problem the first time a child traveled by Floo—and confidently cast a handful of powder into the fireplace, knowing the connection to Malfoy Manor would be open for him. Al was a warm weight against his chest as he stepped forwards, and Harry curled himself protectively down, until his chin brushed his son’s hair. Al laughed, then coughed as soot caught in his throat.
Harry had the oddest sensation as they whirled away. It was as if he were carrying his past to meet his future. Which was nonsense, because really, both Al and Draco were two pieces of his present.
And there was another sensation that was familiar, and which he didn’t like at all. The scars on his forehead, his chest, and the back of his hand throbbed steadily, softly, mercilessly.
*
Draco would have given a great deal to see the expression on the Aurors’ faces when they strode through the front doors of the Manor and found his mother waiting with tea ready for them. But he had to remain in the nursery, near the back of the Manor, until his mother called for him. It was one thing for Narcissa Malfoy, mistress of social courtesies and not a suspect herself, to anticipate the Ministry’s schedule; it would seem too suspicious if Draco was also waiting for them, as if he had insider knowledge.
Which he did, thanks to Ron Weasley. But one did not betray such things.
He straightened Scorpius’s dress robe with one fussy hand. Of course the house-elves had dressed him, and of course they had done a seemingly perfect job, but Draco would rather have cut off his left hand than let his son go out with dirty clothes, and in his wandering Scorpius had run against his cot and smeared a small amount of dust over the hems.
“You never stop thinking about clothes, do you, Malfoy?”
Draco felt something within him relax as the deep voice spoke from behind him. He had known Harry was coming, but—well, he had not been certain when he would arrive, that was all. He had not really been anxious that he wouldn’t show up. Once a Gryffindor made a promise, he stuck to it.
“Just think of the social influence and friends you could win if you did the same thing,” he drawled, and then scooped up Scorpius and turned around, eager to see the way Harry’s face would soften when he caught sight of the boy.
Except that Harry carried a bundle of his own, and his face both softened and became expectant, as he awaited Draco’s reaction to his son.
Draco couldn’t do much but stare. The boy lacked the lightning bolt scar that would have made Harry distinctive even at two, of course, but the messy black hair and green eyes were the same. Harry’s son resembled him at least as closely as Scorpius resembled Draco—and more legitimately, Draco thought with a small stab of envy, since he was sure Harry had worked no magic to change the baby’s eye or hair color.
“Draco Malfoy,” Harry murmured, “my son, Albus Severus Potter.” The little head tilted back and the small mouth frowned at his father, showing that the boy didn’t like his full name. “We call him Al,” Harry added, and the puckered mouth relaxed. “And this is Draco Malfoy, Al, and his son Scorpius.”
“Is he my age?” Al demanded in a reedier voice than Draco had expected; the boy was slightly larger than Scorpius. “You said he was my age.”
“You’re two, Scorpius, aren’t you?” Harry asked, and Draco appreciated the way Harry directed his attention at his son, instead of waiting for the adult who held him to answer.
“Yes, I am,” said Scorpius, with impeccable politeness, and then he reached out an arm. Draco carried him across the room to take hold of Al’s hand, since he didn’t want him running about on the carpet and getting his robes dirty again. Scorpius stared curiously at the other boy, but never wavered, and Al gripped him back the same way, staring slightly at him too, as if, now that he saw him, someone else his own age was a miracle too startling to be swallowed all at once.
Harry muffled a chuckle. Draco glanced at him, and saw his green eyes burning with a pride and pleasure and joy that made Draco’s knees weak. To cover it, he coughed and looked down at the boys. “You think they’ll soften the Aurors?” he murmured.
“That,” said Harry easily, “and I’ve been promising Al a friend his own age forever. Thought they’d both appreciate it—and in the future, we can talk about them when we can’t think of anything else.”
Maybe it was stupid, but Draco wasn’t one to let a challenge like that pass by. “I don’t think we’ll ever run out of interesting things to talk about,” he said, and flashed his teeth in an expression that Harry could mistake for a smile if he really wanted to. “Not when decades have passed.”
*
Harry snorted. “You’re probably right,” he said, firmly quashing his fear of any relationship with Draco lasting that long. He might live to a great age, and Draco might, too, and their sons would outlive them. He nudged Al, and pulled his son along so that his hand would separate from Scorpius’s. “We need to go out and talk to some people from the Ministry now, Al,” he said.
Al’s face took on a stubbornness that made Harry want to groan. Lily was the good child, James the stubborn one, Al the shy one, he and Ginny were prone to say, but when Al really wanted something, he could make his brother look as yielding as river water. “Want to hold Scorpius’s hand,” he said, and tightened his grip, as if to say that Harry would have to rip him away before he would let go.
“Me too,” said Scorpius, “Don’t want to let you go.” And he glanced up at his father with wide, appealing eyes that Harry was sure Draco had given in to many times, and then cursed himself for giving in to. He glanced at Draco, expecting to see the familiar eye-roll of any frustrated parent.
Draco, though, looked as if he had had a large dose of his favorite cream. “Quite proper, Scorpius,” he said. “We should never let go of our friends.” And he shifted closer to Harry, so that the boys could more easily hold hands—and his shoulder leaned against Harry’s. His eyes were full of challenges that hadn’t been in his voice, darting through his expression like clouds.
Harry returned his gaze for long moments, then inclined his head. Yes, this was more than just an image for the Ministry to gape at. This was a connection that would endure when the mystery and the Ministry’s harassment of the Malfoys was a distant memory.
Draco’s face was molten with joy when he smiled like that. Harry turned carefully away, lest he be thought to be staring too long. His friendship with Draco had to be a little more careful than his friendship with anyone else.
I hope that Al can have a bond with Scorpius that’s less complicated.
“Shall we?” he asked, over the sound of Al telling Scorpius the story of how he’d nearly crashed his broom into a tree.
“Let’s,” Draco said, and it didn’t matter that he was looking away; Harry could still feel the voice pouring into him like warm water.
*
Draco had never seen quite so many Aurors with dropped jaws, or thought to see quite so many. He smirked and kept his eyes trained carefully ahead, as though it were perfectly normal for him to be entering his drawing room with Harry Potter at his side and their sons clasped hand-in-hand, chattering to and sometimes interrupting each other with grave childish voices.
It was normal, or it would be. Draco savored the happiness of that as a silent sweet inside himself, as he sat down in one of two chairs standing comfortably close together. Harry arranged himself easily in the other, adjusting his son and absently wiping away a bit of drool from Al’s chin. Draco clamped his jaw tight to avoid laughing aloud. Let these men and women, tall and stern in dark robes, stand up to that.
“Mr. Potter,” said their apparent leader, a plump witch with very red cheeks who reminded Draco of Molly Weasley—unpleasantly so, though at least she didn’t have red hair. She didn’t bother to look directly at Draco before she focused on Harry. “I understand that you’ve reversed your former position on Mr. Malfoy’s guilt.”
“That position was never mine,” Harry said smoothly, and then smiled up at her, a narrow expression that Draco thought he might have practiced on overeager fans and impertinent newspaper reporters for years. “If someone had thought to owl me before quoting that letter as mine, I could have made that clearer for them.” He paused, as though trying to think of why it hadn’t happened, and then gave a shrug, as relaxed as every other gesture he’d made so far. “A shame they didn’t.”
“Then—“ The witch shook her head, as if coping with Harry’s denial was beyond her. Or as if her every plan had depended on not finding Harry Potter here, Draco thought, occupying himself with fussing over Scorpius’s hair so that he wouldn’t howl aloud with triumph.
“I never believed Draco Malfoy guilty,” Harry said. “That letter printed this morning in the Daily Prophet, and sent to a few other people who needed to know about it, is the truth. I am continuing the investigation at Mr. Malfoy’s side. When I find the truth, then I’ll let you know.”
“Mr. Malfoy had refused to take Veritaserum from our hands,” the witch said stiffly. “We had no reason to think that he was telling the truth.”
“He could not be sure that you would not use the information against him,” said Harry, and he leaned forwards. Draco saw the expression he privately called Harry’s “charging lion” look appear on his face. He had seen it directed against him often enough. Never had he thought he would see it deployed in defense of him. “Or fish for other things that you had no right to know. Mr. Malfoy has confessed the Ministry’s harassment to me. Many Aurors, he has said, would hound him for the crimes of his father when he had no part in committing them.”
“He’s a Malfoy!” a younger Auror burst out from the back. “How can you trust him, Mr. Potter?” His voice was a limping little lost thing, Draco realized in contempt; in particular, he seemed to find the lack of an additional title for Harry distasteful. There’s someone who was just itching for him to become an Auror, Draco thought. “I know that you fought with him all through school. Rita Skeeter’s biography of you says that you slapped away his hand when you first met, and now—“
Harry surged to his feet, though he never rose high enough to pull Al’s fingers from Scorpius’s. The expression on his face had changed again, this time to something like a thundercloud, and Draco felt a faint vibration move through the walls and the pictures on those walls. He was momentarily glad that there were no portraits in this room, his Malfoy ancestors would have objected to being rattled around by Harry’s magic.
The young Auror seemed to have realized he’d gone too far, and swallowed audibly. The rosy-cheeked witch tried to intervene, but Harry interrupted before she could, speaking softly and passionately.
“Every word that Rita Skeeter has written about me is a damn lie. I didn’t get along with Draco in school, that’s true. But the boy is not the man. The man learned hard lessons during the war, and suffered more than any of you in here, I’ll be bound.” His voice deepened into a hiss, near enough Parseltongue that Draco saw a few of the Aurors shiver. Harry stalked forwards now, gently parting Al from his friend. The boy didn’t protest; he was looking up at his father in wonder. Draco realized with a start that Harry was positioning himself between Draco and the Aurors, as if he thought they would charge en masse and wanted to be ready to defend Draco. He didn’t have his wand drawn, but he didn’t need one. Holding a child in his arms, he was still stronger than any other wizard present, and they all knew it. “And he’s kept quiet since then, not trying to take advantage of the old Malfoy prestige, not consorting with any remaining Death Eaters or the pure-blood supremacists that I know some of you have ties to.” It was just a guess, since a group near this size—there were fifteen Aurors in the room—probably included some involved in the wizarding world’s most bitter political dispute, but an educated one. Draco saw cheeks flush, and eyes fall. “I would swear to his truthfulness with my honor, on my word, on my life. Draco Malfoy is my friend, and you’ll have better proof than you do before you pretend that I support your arresting him.”
Draco swallowed a few times. He had to make a contribution of his own now, one that he hadn’t told Harry about, but felt moved to make, given how bravely Harry was defending him. Still, he needed a moment to recover from all the emotions that stormed through him.
Harry had protected him. Harry had stood as strongly at his side as he had ever stood by one of the Weasleys. Harry had made even his lack of ambition in the previous ten years look good.
Draco could do no less than be worthy of such shining words.
“As long as Harry can stay,” he interrupted quietly, “I’ll take the Veritaserum.”
*
Harry pivoted around, seeking out Draco’s eyes. He didn’t want Draco to do this merely to satisfy the Aurors. They didn’t deserve to be satisfied, and wouldn’t until they followed a due process of law and courtesy.
What he saw in Draco’s face reassured him, though, as did the small nod and the mouthed Yes he received a moment later. Yes, Draco wanted this. And he didn’t fear the answers he might give as long as Harry remained in the same room with him so that the Aurors didn’t abuse the privilege.
The witch who led them was entirely unnerved. She licked her lips, and then drew out the Veritaserum from a pocket of her robes. She gave Harry a glance before she proceeded. Harry stared hard at her, and stepped out of the way.
He wondered idly if she realized that by granting him so much power and importance, she’d let him win.
The questions the Aurors asked took up the better part of an hour. They asked about Esther Goldstein’s murder every way they possibly could, and still Draco steadily refused to give them anything but the truth—that he hadn’t murdered the girl, and in fact had never heard of her until the killing appeared in the papers. When one of the Aurors tried to ask about something else, such as a young and stupid one who said he had a right to know what Draco had done during the war, Harry leaned forwards and stared. That cut said questions right off.
Luckily, no one asked if Draco had remained in his room that entire night. When asked where he was, he said, “At home,” and that was enough.
Harry was peripherally aware that Narcissa had come back into the room during the interrogation, but he didn’t dare turn away to acknowledge her, knowing the Aurors were just waiting for such an excuse. When the rosy-cheeked witch, her hands shaking now with frustration, capped the Veritaserum and put it away, Harry stood, shifted Al to the side, held out his hand, and gave her a smile with all his teeth in.
“I hope you’ve learned what you need to know,” he said.
She stared back at him as she shook his hand. “Someday, Potter,” she said, “you won’t be here.”
Harry let his magic and his anger gather in his eyes, and she turned and led the others hastily out.
Draco started to stand, his eyes and smile brilliant. Harry’s breath caught as he looked at him.
Narcissa interrupted before he could speak. “Draco,” she said, and her voice was pale and colorless and made Harry turn in a moment.
Her face was a match for her voice. She stood with her hands folded precisely in front of her and enunciated every word clearly. “Marian is missing, and there is blood splattered all over her room.”
Chapter 12.
