Author: Slytherincess
Recipient: Snarkyscorp
Title: On License
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco; Draco/Astoria; Harry/Ginny
Summary: Following a terrible crime and four-and-a-half years in Azkaban, Draco Malfoy is granted early release and is placed on license with an innovative new programme through the Auror Office of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Draco finds he doesn't know which is worse: Azkaban, or being under the legal supervision of Harry Potter. Even the most sacrosanct of boundaries can be breached.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): Infidelity; Risk Aware Consensual Kink (RACK); Rimming; Anal Sex; Comeplay; Coarse language; Neglect towards duty by a person in a position of trust (for some, this implies dubious consent or coersion, regardless of the circumstances); Intoxication; Background minor character death; Minor reference to infant death; Description of a scene of graphic violence; Dark Imagery; Angst; Dark Mark Kink; Mindfuck; Dubious Consent; (Note ALL Pairings; Note the NC-17 Rating; 2 + 2 = 4); Um . . . magical nettles? Why do I have more warnings than the entire fest combined?
Epilogue compliant? Yes
Word Count: ~57,000
Author's Notes: Thank you to Writcraft, Celestlyn, Sordid Humors, and Lordhellebore, who helped immensely with this story. I wouldn't have been able to have written this without Chatzy I You! Snarkyscorp, I genuinely hope you enjoy this. Happy Holidays! (Note to you at the end) For non-Brits, being 'on license' in the UK is the same as being on probation or parole. I think some of you may immediately know who wrote this, but please don't guess in the comments it would spoil the fun!

On License

:::

Time doesn't stop for anyone
It doesn't matter what you've done
I want to lose myself in you
Are you afraid of dying too?

Grains of sand is all we are
Crawling on our manic star
One tiny person
In one shiny car
Calling from our manic star

Don't know how I got this scar
Crawling on our manic star
I'm all right, at least so far
Hanging on our manic star

Spinning on our manic star
Calling from our manic star . . .

The balloons were the colour of piss.

Pale, straw-hued globes filled the formal dining area of Malfoy Manor, stuck haphazardly to the walls with Spell-o-tape, up just as high as a nine-year-old boy could reach. A flood of balloons swept across the floor, some glommed together, others bouncing and scuttling about, swirling around the legs of the many chairs at the Malfoys' austere dining table. A child-produced banner had been charmed with a sticking spell to drape across the two life-sized portraits of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy that hung over the massive fireplace. A fire roared there, deceptively cheerful, snapping and sparking its way up the flue.

WELCOME HOME DRACO MALFOY AND/OR DAD

Draco sat at the head of the table, in his old spot.

"Here you are," Astoria said, one gentle hand on his shoulder. She placed his supper in front of him. Lamb chops, seared and undoubtedly rare; mashed potatoes with garlic and butter; a Greek yoghurt sauce with herbs that he'd always liked; fresh, long green beans. "Your favourite."

"Thank you." He sliced into his chop, which, as expected, bled all over his plate, turning the fluffy white mound of potatoes pink at the base. His stomach lurched, but he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. At least not tonight. He forked in a bite and chewed. "Mmm," he said, nodding up at Astoria. "Very good."

The patter of feet came from down the corridor leading from the dining room to the kitchens. The steps got closer and closer; a flying blond blur whizzed through the air, leaping from the edge of the dining room as far into the pile of balloons as Scorpius could manage.

*POP**POP**POP**POP**POP**POP*

Draco winced.

"Excellent!" Scorpius scrambled to his feet. "I'll bet I got five that time!" And like that he was off again, but after the tenth time, Draco made him stop and sit down at the table for supper.

"What is this?" Scorpius asked, his nose wrinkling. He poked at the chop with his knife.

"This," Astoria said, "is your father's favourite meal. Don't you remember?"

"No," Scorpius said, not looking at Draco. "Can I have some cheese on toast instead?"

"Cheese on toast?" Draco asked, fiddling with the food on his plate, moving it about so it looked like he was eating more than he really was.

"Lately it's all he'll eat."

"It's not healthy to eat only one thing all the time."

"You're not eating at all." Scorpius was observing after all.

"I am eating," Draco lied. "It's just that I prefer to take my meals slowly." In Azkaban, he'd found, if he finished eating early, the Dementors began to cluster and bother him, and the wizard guards there merely found that amusing, so Draco had learnt to eat slowly, to take the full twenty minutes allotted to finish his meal.

Astoria was busy ordering cheese on toast for Scorpius from their house-elf. Draco interrupted her.

"Let the boy eat what he's been served," he said, not looking up from his own plate. He shoved in a bite of green beans. They tasted as salty as the ocean. He wasn't used to seasonings anymore and it was all he could do to swallow. He drained his water glass, washing the beans down. Tuppence, the house-elf, refilled his glass.

"I wasn't sure if you'd want wine," Astoria said. She seemed to be enjoying her meal. "I didn't know if Well, I wasn't sure if it would be allowed "

"Probably not," Draco said, sticking the tines of his fork into his pile of potatoes and sucking at the bits of mash. "I don't think this is meant to be fun."

"Ridiculous! Having wine with supper is certainly not over-indulging on liquor. Perhaps they'll have levels of restriction . . . different levels, that is."

"Maybe. I'll find out tomorrow." Draco laid his napkin on the table, a cold, sick feeling washing through him. His mouth began to water. "Excuse me. I'll be right back."

"Dad, please grab me some cheese on toast?"

"Tuppence will bring it." Draco managed to make it down the corridor and turn towards the kitchens before bolting for the bathroom, his stomach revolting. He hit the bowl and retched up the paltry bits of supper that he'd managed to eat, trying to be as quiet as possible. He didn't want to hurt Astoria's feelings; she'd gone to so much trouble, had cooked the meal herself. It was perfectly prepared. Five years ago he would have tucked in and eaten it eagerly. But now, after years of bland porridge, runny eggs, dry slices of old ham on toast, soggy vegetables, cheap, tinned fruit, and the same rank coconut biscuits every single bloody day, the effects on his system was marked.

A fine sheen of perspiration broke out across his forehead. He pawed at the toilet paper roll and snagged a few sheets, pressing them to his head, where they stuck, absorbing his sweat. The nausea roiled; it was just due to the rich food, he was certain. Yet there was a gnawing fearful sensation in his gut, the same sensation that had coursed through him at the moment he'd understood that there was nothing else his solicitors could do for him, that a preliminary verdict was imminent, and that he would, in fact, be going to Azkaban within hours, if not minutes. It had been a visceral fear that had taken him over, primal, a survival instinct, and he had bolted. It had been purely instinctual, an act of cowardice and self-preservation; he'd lost total control and had had to be restrained by the Wizengamot guards. For, no matter what, he was going to prison, whether it was to await a full trial or to begin serving the forthcoming sentence offered by the Wizengamot, if it were less than life in prison. Five-and-a-half years, the Wizengamot had come back with. The crime was mitigated, they'd said. And so he'd had a choice: Five-and-a-half years in Azkaban or risk the possibility of a life sentence, were he to be found guilty at formal trial by the Wizengamot.

And he would have been found guilty. There was no doubt.

Never mind that he deserved to go to Azkaban. Deep down, he knew this. Actually, he had wanted to go, had wanted to do penance. He could never make up for what he had done, yet he had still selfishly grabbed onto a reduced sentence that would allow him, in just short of six years, to pick up his life where it had left off and to continue on, even though he would never be whole again.

Never mind the one who would never be again. The one who would never know life again, would never take tea and biscuits, or bask in friendship and camaraderie, or lay in the summer grass for a view at the stars . . .

Draco gripped the toilet so hard that his knuckles turned white; his fingertips were purple, and his eyes burnt. His breath came in staccato bursts as once again his forehead beaded with sweat.

Astoria knocked. "All right?" she enquired, sounding concerned.

Draco clenched his jaw several times, trying to regain control. Another wave of nausea swelled. "Fine," he said, in what he hoped was a normal tone. How long had he been there?

"Your supper's gone cold. I'll have Tuppence warm it for you."

"No, uh How about dessert?" His mouth was so dry and his gag reflex was flopping like a fish out of water. It took all he had to not heave.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Just dessert."

"All right. Don't be too long!"

His whole body spasmed and he thought he'd turn his guts inside out from the vomiting.

"Which side of the bed do you want?"

"What side have you been using?"

"No," Astoria said, her eyes mischievous. "I'm not telling. Or you won't choose what you really want." She slipped her arms around his waist and rested her chin on his chest, looking up into his eyes. He stroked her hair affectionately. "Whatever you fancy, Draco. I'm just so glad you're home. I've missed you You have no idea " Tears welled.

"Don't cry," he said, trying not to panic at having to make the decision of which side of the bed to sleep on. "I'm home now. I'm not going anywhere." Ever. Never ever again. He considered his options. He fancied sleeping on his right side which meant, if he was to keep her from spooning him, he ought to take the right side of the bed so she would be to his right while they slept. He pointed. "I'll take that side."

"Really?" She seemed surprised. "I thought you'd take the left."

"I can take the left."

"No, that's not what I meant. You slept on the left side before. It's fine. I want you to be happy."

Happy.

He stripped out of the outfit he'd last worn over four years ago, that day at the Wizengamot, and folded everything neatly, per his personal protocol. His undershirt and shirt looked like they might be on display at Madam Malkin's; he matched the cuffs of his trousers and pinched the legs down the crease, and laid them over the back of a chair. He rolled his socks and tucked them into his shoes, which he placed under the chair holding his trousers. "Do I have any shorts?"

"Of course. Let me get them."

Draco discarded his tattered prison-issue y-fronts into the rubbish bin; he certainly had no use for Azkaban's finest in this, his ancestral home. Standing naked he waited for Astoria to rummage through what was apparently his new dresser.

"Mother sent this over," she said, referring to the dresser he guessed. "Here we go. I bought them all new for you. They've been washed, though."

"Perfect."

"Unless," Astoria said, considering him, "you'd like to put them on later. . . ?"

She needed him. Draco mustered the energy to half-swing, half-tackle her onto the bed, and he crawled up over her, sliding her peignoir upwards as he did. He skated his hand up her side, making her flinch and giggle, and he cupped her perfect, beautiful breast, and they kissed sloppily, hungrily, and her hands went everywhere . . . and for the life of him, Draco could not get hard.

"God damn," he sighed, rolling over finally. "I'm "

"It's nothing," she said as she shimmied down his body, kissing and licking at all his favourite spots. "I'll fix it. . ." Yet, even her hot, eager tongue was useless. Draco flipped her over and brought her off quickly so she wouldn't fuss or worry.

"I expect I'm just tired." He craved a cigarette.

"Oh, I'm too demanding. It's just that it's been years." She whispered into his ear, "I'm practically a virgin again. Remember how you liked that?"

He kissed her thoroughly. It was the least he could do. She was, after all, a wonderful wife. "You were tight."

"Mmm," she said, plucking at the sheer fabric of her gown. She was sated, lying on her back, one arm outstretched. She played with his hair. "Well, tomorrow, then."

"Definitely."

"Mmm," she said again, her eyes drifting shut. "Get the lamp, would you? G'night, Draco."

He left the lamp on and alternately watched her sleep and stared up at the ceiling, until he didn't need the lamp anymore, for the morning had dawned.

MONTH ONE

A Special Circle in Hell

"Name?"

"You know my name."

"Last name first."

"You know my name."

"Start with your last name."

"Christ." Draco rolled his eyes. "Malfoy."

"Spell it."

"M-A-L-F-O-Y."

"First name?"

"Draco." He was burning with humiliation. "D-R-A-C-O."

"Release number?"

"Uh " He rummaged in his pocket, pulling out his wallet. He extracted the copies of his release papers and scanned them quickly. "Is it this number? 2-4-6-0-1?"

"That's it. Address?"

"What, you don't remember?"

"Your address?"

"First my name, obviously, then Malfoy Manor, and it's in Wiltshire. I can never remember the owl postal code, but who can, right? We never use them."

"Bring the owl postal code next time we meet. Names and ages of everyone living in the residence."

"It's not a residence," Draco said haughtily. "It's a manor."

Harry Potter stared at Draco from across the cheesy faux wood and metal top of his cheap desk. "The names," he repeated, "and ages of everyone living in the residence."

"Don't you already have this information?"

"You're aware that being on license is conditional upon your compliance with W.H.O.M.P.?"

"W.H.O.M.P.?"

"Yes," Potter said, his face expressionless, "W.H.O.M.P. Wizarding Home Offender Management Programme."

"Well. That's rather retarded."

"Watch it," Potter said, looking up sharply. "Your solicitor should have explained this to you."

"Clearly, he didn't."

"Answer the question."

Draco made a mental note to sack his solicitor straightaway. Maybe Blaise could refer him to a better one. "Astoria Greengrass Malfoy, age thirty-three. She's my wife. My son, Scorpius Malfoy, is nine. My mother, Narcissa Black Malfoy is sixty, and my father, Lucius Malfoy, is sixty-three. We have house-elves and I couldn't begin to tell you how old they are. That's it. No one else is living in the manor. Unless you count portraits?"

"I'll be visiting your premises within forty-eight hours. I don't see a note in here from the W.H.O.M.P. committee that indicates there's anything wrong with your residence. All the background checks are in order. But I like to see for myself."

"Isn't there some other wizard W.H.O.M.P. what the hell are you anyway?"

"I'm an Auror," Potter said.

"Since when do Aurors look after people on license?"

"It's a new programme. Part of the Ministry reform."

Draco snorted. "Ministry reform? My arse."

"You're welcome to serve out the remainder of your sentence at Azkaban if you want. Should I put in for a recall?"

"God, Potter, no. What is this? If I say anything against the Ministry I go back?" He had thirteen months left on his original sentence, thirteen months he desperately did not want to spend in Azkaban. "I thought the Ministry was supposed to replace the Dementors," he said, practically accusing Potter. He easily recalled the cold, frigid, wafting presence of the Dementors outside his cell. They had always been there, hovering, waiting for any semblance of joy or happiness to suck away.

"They're working on it."

"Fat lot of good that does me now."

"Your job?"

"My what?"

"Your job?" Potter spoke as if Draco were mentally deficient. "A thing you do for money. Perhaps you've heard of it?"

"I know what a job is!"

"Then what it is you'll be doing?"

"A mate of mine's got something for me."

Potter's eyes bored into him. "Be more specific."

"Theodore Nott, my mate, is giving me a job."

"Doing what?"

"Investment banking."

"Investment banking?" Potter looked sceptical.

"Right."

"And is that the profession you held prior to your incarceration?"

"No." Draco cocked his head, smug. "I'm a member of the oldest profession, Potter."

Potter's eyebrow rose. "You're a prostitute?"

"Excuse me?"

"The 'oldest' profession? That being prostitution?"

"No, the oldest profession is not prostitution, you daft twat!" Draco leaned in, putting his elbow on Potter's tatty desk. "I inherited."

"Christ." Potter shook his head and made a note in Draco's file. "And how much will Theodore Nott be paying you?"

"Who cares? Whatever he feels like paying me. I don't need it."

"You're to have a letter to me by tomorrow from Mr. Nott verifying your position and salary. It has to be on official letterhead."

"Fine. What else?"

"You aren't allowed to travel outside the UK."

"Well, won't that be brilliant for you."

Potter closed Draco's file and placed it out of reach. "Hold out your left arm. Pull up your sleeve."

"Why?"

"I'll be documenting all your distinguishing marks."

Draco endured the indignity of having his Dark Mark photographed, like he were a zoo animal. Pictures were made with him both standing and sitting down, with his arm outstretched. His mark hadn't faded much.

"That'll do," Potter said to the younger Auror who'd come in with the camera, but then stopped short. "Wait," he said to Draco, as Draco made to pull down his sleeve. "Do you have any other distinguishing marks?"

"Do I? Let's see." Draco looked at Potter and began to unbutton his shirt. He left the two last buttons done up, and shrugged it down over his shoulders. He lifted his undershirt, exposing his torso. Two horizontal scars crisscrossed over his front, from one side of his ribcage to just below his armpit on the other, like someone had taken a knife and slashed a sloppy, jagged 'X' over the middle of his chest. "Sectumsempra," Draco said, his eyes flat. "You might remember it."

"Any other distinguishing marks?" Potter didn't show the slightest reaction.

Arsehole. "No."

"Get pictures," Potter said to the other Auror, and he waited for him to finish. "All right, button up, Malfoy, but leave your left cuff undone."

Draco slumped back into his chair, splay-legged, entirely over this bullshit. "Is that it?" he asked as he did up his shirt.

"No." Potter brought something out from his desk, some kind of small briefcase, and from it he extracted a long, thin expanse of metal that reminded Draco of a Muggle ruler, although it wasn't as long. Potter tapped it with his wand. It seemed to be a band of some kind and it glowed molten hot at the wand's touch. "Bring your arm over here no, the other arm that's right. Hold it up . . . " And with that, Potter directed the band to Draco's left arm and with a flick of his wand the band slid tightly around Draco's wrist with a distinct and rather loud locking sound.

Draco jerked back, pulling his arm away, but the band was on tight and its residual white glow threatened to burn his fair skin. "What the bloody hell?" He grasped the band with his right hand and twisted. It didn't budge. Not even a quarter of an inch.

"It won't move. And you won't be able to get it off. You can try, but you won't be able to. You're tagged. If you cut the band we'll know, and you'll be recalled."

"How long do I have to wear this thing?" Draco snarled, pissed off.

Potter looked at him as if it were obvious. "For the duration of your sentence."

"What?" He was definitely sacking his solicitor. Nobody had said anything to him about being tagged! This programme had been represented to Draco as an early release he'd be on license, yes, but as far as he had understood it, he was just supposed to stay out of trouble for a year and have a job. That was it.

Potter didn't look at Draco as he began to recite what was clearly a tired routine. "You're to ring me up on the Firechat between seven and half-seven every morning. You'll do the same at night. Your curfew is from 5:00 p.m. to 5:00 a.m. and you are required to be in your residence during that time. If I decide to come and check on you, you'd better be there."

"Do you even have a life?"

"You're to meet with me three times a week: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. My office hours are from 6:30 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. and I take lunch from 1:00 to 1:30. Don't come during my lunch. First one here, first serve. If you can manage it, I recommend you come in the mornings. It's usually less busy."

Draco pinched his thumb and forefinger together. "Do you have even a smidgen of a life, Potter? Some semblance?"

Potter stood, closing Draco's file. "That'll do for today. As tomorrow is Wednesday, I'll expect to see you during my office hours."

Draco fussed with the warm, metal bracelet. It was beyond snug. "Wonderful," he said through his teeth, buttoning up his cuff at last, hiding the bracelet and his Dark Mark. "Tomorrow."

"What's this?" Scorpius didn't miss a thing. He fingered Draco's bracelet, curious. "It's new."

"Well, it's part of my release. I have to wear it so the Aurors know where I am all the time."

"Do they know when you're using the bathroom?"

"No." Draco cracked half a smile. "It's not that precise."

"Why do you have to wear this?"

"I just do. W.H.O.M.P. says so." He'd explained W.H.O.M.P. to Scorpius earlier.

"Forever?"

"No. Just for thirteen months."

"So, you'll get it off when I'm ten?"

"That's right."

They sat together on the big comfy wingback in the library, facing the fire. Draco looked down and noticed how young his son seemed, as the shadows danced across his small pale face. The fire was the only light in the room.

"Why did you go to Azkaban?"

Draco had been dreading this. "I made a mistake."

"What kind of mistake?" Scorpius's eyes were wide, questioning, innocent.

"A very bad one." He tried to think of how to explain. "I I didn't listen when I should have."

"Violet says that only really, really bad people go to Azkaban."

"Violet Bulstrode told you that?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think I'm a really, really bad person?"

Scorpius looked up into Draco's eyes and Draco recognised himself in his son's face. "No."

"Even if you did think I was a really bad person, you wouldn't tell me, would you?"

"I don't think that!" Scorpius protested, his little mouth twisting into a frown. "You're my dad. I just don't understand how you ended up in Azkaban. Mother won't tell me and Granddad says "

"It's a fascinating tale," Draco said, interrupting his son. "But now's not the time to tell it." Quite frankly, he was surprised that Scorpius didn't know. But the fact remained that he was far too ashamed, far too humiliated, to tell the tale himself. So he let his son go on in the dark. And a million times over he gave silent thanks to Astoria, for protecting his secret.

"Whatever it is, I can handle it, Dad."

Draco touched his hand to Scorpius's. "Yes, you probably could."

"Then, why "

"That's enough."

"But, Dad "

"No."

"What if "

"Has your mother finished telling you all the Bard's stories?" Draco changed the subject, holding Scorpius's gaze.

"Beedle the Bard?"

"Yes."

"No. Mother saved that book for when for when you got home."

Draco looked down at Scorpius again. "Am I not home? Am I not here?"

Scorpius looked back up at Draco very queerly. "I guess."

"What'd'you mean 'I guess'?"

"What if you go back What if you go away again?"

Draco said very seriously, "I will never leave you on purpose."

"But you left before."

"I didn't want to, son."

"Then why'd you make that mistake?"

"I didn't want to make the mistake."

Scorpius looked at the many shelves of books surrounding them. "Did Granddad read to you when you were little?"

"Not really. He did other things with me."

"Mother said you'd read to me when you got home."

"Can't you can read to me? You're nine."

Scorpius stared at Draco as if he were a horrible disappointment.

"All right, all right." Draco sighed, so terribly put upon. "The Tales of Beedle the Bard?"

Scorpius, although Draco had been gone half of Scorpius's life, seemed to already know enough about Draco to ignore his ridiculousness. "Yeah. Mother's been saving them for you."

"Brilliant." He pushed at Scorpius. "Well, go and get it then."

"It's a first edition!"

"As it should be." Draco recalled how Lucius had used to rant about The Tales of Beedle the Bard and its pro-Muggle leanings, particularly when he'd had too much to drink. "Do you want to start at the beginning, with The Fountain of Fair Fortune?" he asked as Scorpius made his way back with the book. "Excellent." He took it and waited for Scorpius to crawl back onto the enormous chair. Draco flipped through the first few pages and cleared his throat. "High on a hill in an enchanted garden, enclosed by tall walls and protected by strong magic, flowed the Fountain of Fair Fortune Do you see that?" Draco asked, pointing to the illustration of the knight's shield. "A serpent. Do you think this is a Slytherin story?" he questioned. "Hmm?"

"Maybe," Scorpius said, rising on his knees to see. "But that knight's a Muggle. How could he be a Slytherin?"

"I thought you said you haven't read these before."

Scorpius looked at Draco, the burden of Draco's absence obvious on his face. "I haven't read them with you."

Draco's stomach fell and he knew he would do anything to stay right here with his boy. "Fine. So the knight's a Muggle. But his shield has Slytherin's serpent on it. Why do you think that's so?"

"Maybe . . . the knight stole the shield?"

"But he's Sir Luckless. You would think he would've been caught, being unlucky and all."

"Is that what you did, Dad?" Scorpius asked, as if a revelation had just announced itself. "Did you steal a shield?"

Draco laughed. "I wish it were that silly."

Scorpius snuggled in and Draco didn't feel so odd when he draped his arm around his son's shoulder and brought the book to rest on Scorpius's knee. He continued, "Once a year, between the hours of sunrise and sunset on the longest day, a single unfortunate was given the chance to fight their way to the Fountain, bathe in its waters and receive Fair Fortune for evermore . . . "

Draco took a good look at his tag when he was in bed that night. It was irritating his wrist.

W.H.O.M.P.
Malfoy, Draco Lucius
Ministry of Magic Department of Magical Law Enforcement
Azkaban No. 24601
Supervising Auror: D.C.I. Potter, Harry James
Supervision Level: 1

Bloody hell.

Draco felt owned.

He arrived at Harry's office at 6:24 a.m. the next morning, showered, shaved, and impeccably dressed.

Harry made him wait until exactly 6:30 a.m.

"What's 'Supervision Level' mean? What's this '1' for?"

"It means you're on a high level of supervision."

"Does it get any higher than level one?"

"No. If you need a higher level of supervision than one, then you're recalled back to Azkaban."

"Rubbish." Draco was miffed. "I don't need to be on the highest level of supervision. I'm an upstanding "

"Stop it," Potter said, cutting him off. "A person lost their life. You'll be on level one supervision and I reckon you'll like it."

"I don't have to "

"Sit down."

"Why?"

"Sit down. We'll be going over your rules of license."

Draco sat, fingering the tight cuff around his left wrist. "I thought we already went over the rules."

"I touched on a few, but this is your formal advisement." Potter extracted several pieces of parchment from Draco's file, which he took from a large pile on the corner of his desk. He flipped the parchment and slid it across the desk so Draco could read along as Potter dictated the terms to him.

"You shall be well-behaved " Potter began.

"That's completely subjective!"

" and you shall not commit any further offences or acts that could put members of the public or your friends or family in danger."

Potter had Draco initial that he acknowledged the rule as set forth.

"You must keep in touch with your W.H.O.M.P. Auror and follow the direction of your W.H.O.M.P. Auror at all times. You are not to make racist or sexist remarks "

"Does this mean I can't have a go at Granger the Mudblood?"

Potter looked up. "Another remark like that and you'll find yourself on a one-way Portkey right back to Azkaban." He seemed serious.

"I was just having you on."

"Don't." Potter tapped the rules agreement with his quill. "You shall be on time for any scheduled appointments and you shall not appear for any W.H.O.M.P. obligations under the influence of any illegal or mood-altering potions, substances, or alcohol."

"What about Muggle drugs?"

"No Muggle drugs," Potter said. "If I, your W.H.O.M.P. Auror, direct you to meet with me at your home or elsewhere, you are to accommodate the request immediately."

"Can I carry my wand?"

"Yes, but you can only use it for practical spells. Nothing fancy or elaborate." Potter clarified, "Alohomora and the like."

"Aloho-bloody-mora." Draco's lip curled as he scrawled his initials by the term at Potter's prompting. "Might as well strip me of my wand."

"We can and will if you violate your conditions, so stay within the guidelines of this agreement."

"Because you just have to own every sodding wand I manage to get my hands on where is my wand, anyway? You know, my hawthorn wand?"

"You may only live at a W.H.O.M.P.-approved address. You may not move or relocate without the express consent of the W.H.O.M.P. team."

"I'd really like to know where my wand is."

"Initial here and here."

Draco did, not even looking. "I'm sure if it were your wand "

"It is my wand." Potter continued, "All work, voluntary or paid, shall be approved by the W.H.O.M.P. Auror prior to you starting a position."

"Volunteer?"

"Yes, I can ask you to do community work if I feel it would further your rehabilitation."

"Fabulous."

"You may not travel outside the UK without express permission from me, your W.H.O.M.P. Auror." Potter trained a flat gaze on Draco. "And just so you know? I always say no. Initial here and here."

Draco jabbed at the parchment with the quill, seething inside.

"As you are tagged and on home detention, you must observe the curfew of 5:00 p.m. to 5:00 a.m. and be in your residence during this time "

"Yeah, yeah. I know. If you come by and I'm not there, I get recalled."

"Probably, yes."

"Am I allowed to have wine with supper?"

Potter pointed at another condition. "You shall not drink alcohol to excess or possess or use any illegal or abusable potions or substances while under the supervision of W.H.O.M.P."

Draco leaned forwards and put his arm on Harry's desk. "Define 'excess'."

"If you're arrested for alcohol, substance, or potions-related crimes, then it's excessive. If you show up reeking like a pub, still rat-arsed from the night before, it's excessive. If your wife rings me up to bitch about how much you're drinking or using, it's excessive. If I feel it's excessive, it's excessive."

"Another thing!" Draco stabbed the air with his finger. "Totally subjective!"

"You shall submit to potions, substances, or alcohol testing at the direction of the W.H.O.M.P. Auror."

"Fine. No worries there."

"It'll be at your expense."

"Naturally."

"You shall attend treatment for the abuse of potions, alcohol, or other substances, or for a mental condition, at the direction of your W.H.O.M.P. Auror."

"Mental condition? Now wait just a minute "

"It'll be at your expense."

"I? Am not mental."

"You shall not possess any Muggle weapons, magical explosives, or any other destructive potions, spells, artefacts, or devices, and this condition can be waived only by the Wizengamot."

"But what about Quintaped hunting "

"No hunting."

"What if I bring it up to the Wizengamot? My father and I go to the Isle of Drear every fall."

"Go ahead. I'm sure they'll be thrilled to modify your license to include Hairy Macboons and weapons, judging by your offence."

Draco sat back, considering Potter.

"A few loose ends," Potter said, directing his quill towards the parchment in front of Draco. "If you need to apply for a jobseeker's allowance, report to the Ministry Monday through Thursday, from 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. "

"The dole?" Draco was offended. "Not bloody likely."

"Register with a general healer for your basic health care needs."

"My health is perfect."

"As your supervising W.H.O.M.P. Auror, if you fuck up? I can have you back in Azkaban within two hours. I have the discretion to give warnings instead of a full recall. But, Malfoy," Potter said rather lightly, "don't test me."

"Why would I? I just want to get this over with and never see you again."

"Then we have the same goal." Harry reopened Draco's file and shuffled through several papers until he found Draco's release set. He read them silently. "In your case, I'll be ordering victim reparation lessons "

"What's that?"

"It's a formal programme dealing with victim empathy. You're to make amends to the victim "

"The victim is dead, Potter. Unless you're suggesting Necromancy "

"Do you think that individual was the only victim in this?" Potter asked.

Draco stared at him as if Potter'd grown a second head. "The the . . . victim is the one who's dead. So, yeah."

"So your victim left no one behind? Your victim isn't missed? No one else is devastated because of your crime?"

Draco had purposefully tried not to think about it all these years. "The victim's the victim," he insisted.

"True. The primary victim is that. But not the only victim of your crime. You'll learn that."

His shame burned hot. He stared at Potter, not knowing what to say.

But Potter moved on. "Did you bring the letter from Theodore Nott?"

Draco fished it out from his robes pocket. Theodore had been nice enough to bring the letter by the night before, on his way home from his investment firm. "Here."

Potter perused the letter. "Decent salary."

"Oh, is it good?"

"Only you wouldn't know what constitutes a decent salary."

"I don't need to know a decent salary, now, do I?" Draco crossed his arms over his chest and looked down his nose at Potter. "How much do they pay you anyway, you being a civil servant and all? Enough for a mediocre broom and an unfashionable flat in some grotty London suburb?"

"Something like that." Potter was making notes in Draco's file. He didn't bother to meet Draco's eyes.

"What're you putting down there? Let me see it."

"You can have your solicitor request access to your W.H.O.M.P. file through the Wizengamot."

"Show it to me."

Potter continued to write. "No."

"Why not?"

"You want to hear it? Fine." Potter read from the file. "Offender presents as defensive and has little insight into the impact his crime has had on offender's victim's family and tertiary victims. Offender defaults to sarcasm and deflection when addressed by supervising W.H.O.M.P. Auror. Offender does not appear to internalise the seriousness of his crime. This Auror shall require offender to complete the W.H.O.M.P. victim reparation programme as a requirement of continued license." He looked at Draco. "Translated, this means you're a huge arsehole who thinks only about himself."

Draco drew up, his ears burning. The tag around his wrist felt tighter than ever. "First? I am not, and have never, ever been a huge arsehole. Second, I want a new supervising W.H.O.M.P. Auror. Third, fuck you. And four, you have no idea how I feel about about " He couldn't even say the name.

Potter spoke aloud as he jotted down more notes in Draco's file. "Offender hostile to this Auror and requests transfer to different supervising W.H.O.M.P. Auror. Offender advised he may lodge a complaint with the Azkaban Prison Services or the W.H.O.M.P. Services Prison and Probation Ombudsman." Potter rummaged around in his desk and brought out a business card. He slapped it onto the top of his desk and slid it towards Draco. "Kenneth McKennitt, Prison and Probation Ombudsman," he said, and went back to his notes. "Offender's request for transfer to another supervising Auror is denied."

Draco boggled. "Are you even human?"

"Get up," Potter said, closing Draco's file and tossing it on his desk. He stood.

"Why?"

"Routine illegal potions and substances test."

"I don't use potions." Draco didn't move. "Or substances."

"Then you'll have no trouble submitting to a test." Potter stared hard at Draco. "Get up. Now."

The bathroom was dingy, but functional.

Potter finished filling out a stack of triplicate parchment with a Perma-Quill. "Sign here and initial here and here," he said, indicating where Draco should sign. Draco did. "Quill please." Draco handed it back to Potter, who himself initialed the form in several places and then scrawled his signature on the bottom line. Potter separated the form and handed the bottom copy to Draco. "Keep these for your records, in case there's ever a testing discrepancy." Draco stuffed the parchment into his trousers pocket, not bothering to examine it. And then Potter handed him a purple sparkly cup. "You'll be providing a urine sample for potions and substances testing."

"I can't You want me to take a piss in this?"

"Yep."

"You want me to take a piss in a purple sparkly cup."

Potter leaned against the wall, arms folded, holding his remaining two forms. "Get on with it."

Draco just stood there, holding the cup. "Do you mind?" he said, after a moment. Potter had made no bones to leave.

"The testing is visually monitored."

It took him a few seconds to understand. His bladder retracted like a frightened turtle. "You can't be serious. You're going to watch me take a piss?"

"Yep. Right into the pretty, purple, sparkly cup."

"Like bloody fucking hell you are!"

"It's legally required. Don't take it personally."

"Why? What reason could you possibly have for "

"I'm making sure you aren't falsifying your test." Potter shifted. "It's also a chain of custody matter."

"Chain of custody?"

"The chain of custody prevents tampering or accidental contamination of your sample."

"And how exactly would I falsify a piss test?"

Potter looked bored. "You'd be surprised. People come up with all kinds of ways." He shrugged. "Contraptions. Charms. Using someone else's urine. You name it, someone's tried it."

"What?"

Potter motioned with his chin. "Undo your trousers and bring them down to your mid-thigh."

Draco's impulse was to bolt from the bathroom. "I am not doing that."

"You're required to." Potter shrugged. "It's a condition of your license. We just finished reviewing your terms. Don't be daft and get recalled over a bloody stupid potions test."

Draco stared at Potter, frozen.

"Your trousers."

It was as if someone else was controlling his body, like a marionette. It was surreal and shocking, so much so that Draco wondered if it was really happening. He undid his belt, button, and zip and looked at Potter. "Is there any other way "

"No. Lower them to your mid-thigh."

Draco eased his trousers down and stood there.

Potter raised an eyebrow again. "Your shorts, too."

"You didn't say anything about my shorts!"

"So you'll be pissing yourself, then?"

Draco closed his eyes. He couldn't believe the abject humiliation flooding through him. It was so bad it was visceral. He wanted to simultaneously run screaming from the room and to pop Potter in the face, over and over until his stupid glasses broke into a thousand pieces and he was left bloodied and bruised, crumpled on the floor.

"No," Draco said, red as a beetroot, "I won't be pissing myself." He understood he had to muster the gumption to do this. He thought of the misery of Azkaban, of Astoria and Scorpius, of the beautiful light of freedom, and with a wavering surge of courage he yanked his shorts down.

"Lift up your shirt."

"Why the " He stopped. Why bother to ask? Draco lifted his shirt so the tails were at his waist.

"Turn around, keeping your shirt lifted."

Draco turned; his trousers slipped and pooled around his ankles. His face burned and his gut churned. "Bloody hell!"

"Face me again and lift up your penis."

"Why?"

"I'm looking for tampering, Malfoy. Contraptions. Like I said."

Draco lifted his cock for Potter and his mortification peaked as Potter visually examined him.

"All right," Potter said. "Give the sample."

"Leave."

"No. It's a monitored test. C'mon." Potter looked at his watch. "I've likely got other offenders waiting by now."

"I don't have to go."

"We don't need a lot for the test."

Draco was holding the purple cup in place, and he concentrated as hard as he could.

Nothing.

He closed his eyes and thought of running water, rivers, the ocean, water arcing gracefully from the microscopic penises of Italian cherub statues, and even of the kitchen sink.

It was like his bladder had been sewn shut.

"I can't," he said, feeling frantic. The thought of being recalled was too much to bear.

Potter sighed. "Zip up," he said, as if used to such antics. "We'll do this the hard way."

Six bottles of water later, Draco was hopping from foot to foot. "All right!" he called out to Potter from the hallway outside Potter's office. "I'm about to bloody well pop here."

Potter was meeting with another W.H.O.M.P. offender. "You'll have to wait until I'm done."

Draco minced up and down the hall, squeezing his thighs together, back and forth. "Hurry!"

He gave a copious sample ten minutes later; Potter watched him like a hawk.

"It was It was inexcusable, is what it was," Draco was saying later that night. The three of them were again eating in the formal dining room, Astoria at Draco's right, Scorpius to the left. Lucius and Narcissa had taken supper early. The expanse of empty chairs lining the long table stretched away from them, almost disappearing into darkness. The room was dimly lit. He stabbed at his vegetables with his fork. His guts were roiling again, but this time from anger.

"Surely something can be done?" Astoria set down her wine. "Can't you get another . . . what is Potter even called? What's his title?"

"All I know is he's an Auror and he's in charge of me while I'm on W.H.O.M.P." Draco drained his wine glass and motioned to Tuppence for a refill. He tossed that one back as well and decided to have Tuppence just leave the bottle on the table next to his elbow. Tuppence backed away with a bow and disappeared into the shadows. He topped off his glass yet again and Astoria laid a hand on his wrist.

"Slow down, Draco. You said "

"I know what I said!" He was feeling rebellious, cocky. He wasn't about to let Harry-twatpack-Potter tell him what to do, no matter the circumstances. Draco gulped the wine down, and a slow heat shimmered inside him as the alcohol sloshed around his belly. He felt a warm flush creep across his cheeks and his hairline prickled. "It's bollocks. Fucking unacceptable "

"Draco." Astoria held his gaze, her jaw set. Scorpius looked up at Draco's swear, chewing his cheese on toast.

"You said 'fucking'."

"Well spotted."

"See?" Astoria said, motioning at Scorpius with her fork. "Little pitchers have big ears."

"My ears aren't big."

"Your mother's right," Draco said, not caring. "So don't say 'fucking'. It's gauche."

"But you just said it again."

"To reiterate to you what not to say."

"You still said it!"

"Fine." Draco attacked his beef with his knife, cutting sloppily. "Don't use that word."

"What word?"

"Scorpius, honestly," Astoria said. "Don't incite your father." She turned to Draco. "What else happened?"

"I can't travel. I have to have a job. I can't go out at night. I have to take a piss in a cup "

"Draco! We're eating "

" for potions and substances testing Merlin only knows how many times per week with Potter watching "

"What?" Astoria boggled, propriety forgotten. "Why on earth would he want to watch you, well, provide a sample?"

"Because he's a creepy perv?" Draco said, through a mouthful of food. He gestured. "I'll owl Blaise after supper. He's got to know of a decent solicitor, a colleague or someone. Because I'll tell you what " He pointed his fork at Astoria, emphasising his point. " this is utter and complete bullshit!"

"Well . . ." She seemed hesitant as she folded her napkin and placed it in her lap. "It's just a year . . . Right?"

"That's not the point," Draco said. "No one told me I'd be subjected to this kind of corrupt, degrading treatment. I should have stayed in Azkaban and served out my sentence instead of jumping through all of these outrageous, absurd hoops just to end up confined to my own home like I'm some common criminal "

"But, Dad?" Scorpius asked, looking wounded. "Wouldn't you rather be here with us?"

It grew very quiet. Draco looked at his son. "Well, yes, of course I want to be here with you and your mother."

"Then why'd you just say you wish you would've stayed in Azkaban?"

"I " He looked at Astoria for help, but she merely stared back at him, as if curious about what he would say. "I wouldn't say that exactly. What I mean "

"Why?" Scorpius was gripping the lip of the table. "Why would you rather be in Azkaban than here?"

Astoria coughed delicately and averted her eyes.

"I don't want to be in Azkaban, Scorpius," Draco said, fumbling for the right words. "I I'm just angry is all."

"Because they're making you do things you don't want to do?"

"Perhaps we should discuss this privately," Astoria suggested, reaching towards Draco.

He lifted his arm, avoiding her hand. He was aggravated and felt misunderstood. "No, it's not that well, yes. All I need to do is live a quiet life and keep to myself, here, with you and your mother, and a few projects on the side to keep me occupied but, no! Potter's making me take lessons on Merlin-knows-what empathy or some rot and I have to get assessed to make sure I'm not mental, which of course I'm not "

"They think you're mental?" Scorpius's brows shot up. "That is so weird."

Draco rolled his eyes. "I'm not mental. That's the point. But this programme they've got me on requires all these inane conditions "

Astoria had his forearm now; her smooth fingers slid around his wrist. "Let's talk about it later. Can't we just enjoy our meal together?"

Rage blossomed. "No, we will talk about it right the fuck now!" Draco squashed his napkin into the pile of food on his plate. "Because this is rubbish! This entire thing was misrepresented and mishandled and nobody told me I'd be expected to go along with all these extraneous, bullshit conditions "

"Dad "

"Don't interrupt. It's rude." Draco was clenching his fists so tightly he could feel the sting of his nails digging into his palms. He felt hot, suffocated trapped like an animal. He wished he could unzip his skin and crawl right out of it, because he certainly didn't feel himself. "I'm supposed to go to lessons to learn about empathy? Empathy? I'm thirty-five-fucking-years-old "

"Dad "

Astoria moved behind him to rub his shoulders, trying to soothe him. "Sweetheart, I know it's a lot, but surely you can "

"It's not whether or not I can," Draco said, wiggling out from under her touch. He felt angry at her, at her solicitous tone, which he knew was unfair because Astoria was only trying to help. Yet his ire rose. "It's about whether I should. I shouldn't have to take any bloody fucking lessons. I shouldn't have to be treated as if I'm in prison when I'm not. That's the whole point of this W.H.O.M.P. programme to get out of prison and 'reintegrate'!" He air-quoted angrily. "I don't need to be taught how to 'reintegrate' "

"THEN MAYBE YOU SHOULD JUST GO BACK TO AZKABAN!"

Draco jerked his head around. Scorpius was standing, his pointy face screwed up and angry.

"Scorpius!" Astoria rounded the table, but Scorpius ducked under her reach.

"We did fine without you!" Draco saw his son's chin give a quiver. "We were great without you!"

"Son "

"I don't even remember you! Why don't you just go away and leave us alone. . . " Scorpius bolted.

Draco's stomach dropped into his shoes. He looked towards Astoria, but she was already going after their son.

A new scar stitched itself across his midnight heart.

MONTH TWO

Beneath Contempt

"Tell me why you're here."

"Because you told me I had to come in Mondays, Wednesdays, and "

"No. Tell me why you're here." Potter said, peering at Draco keenly.

"What'd'you care?"

"I'm listening aren't I?"

"Sheeyeah," Draco scoffed. "Because you're getting paid to. Admit it, Potter. I'm nothing but a cheque in your pocket." He glared. "And a bloody lousy one at that."

"There are hundreds of careers I could have chosen. But here I am."

"Here you are. With me."

"With you."

"Yeah, your care and concern for me really shines through."

"It's about accountability."

"I've already been held accountable."

"Technically not." Potter tapped Draco's file. "You've a year left on your sentence."

"The Wizengamot says I'm fit to be out. That means I've paid my debt."

Potter leaned forwards, folding his hands. "Is that what you really believe?"

Draco's gut clenched. He stared at Potter. "That's what I said, isn't it?"

"I see. So tell me why you're here, then."

"I " The back of his neck warmed. "I "

"Yes?"

"The Wizengamot put me here."

"Your solicitor applied to the Wizengamot on your behalf to be part of this programme. Why?"

"He said I shouldn't have to rot away in Azkaban. I agreed."

"And why were you in Azkaban?"

Draco averted his eyes as a wave of shocking sensations rolled through him. The blank, dirty wall seemed suddenly very interesting. "I . . . made a mistake, all right? Happy?"

"Why would that make me happy?" Potter asked. But Draco, ever paranoid, could almost taste the triumph in Potter's tone. "What kind of mistake?"

"Can't you read? It's in my file, I'm sure."

"I prefer to hear my offenders' versions of their crimes for myself."

"I'm not an 'offender', thanks!" Draco twisted at his W.H.O.M.P. bracelet. "I just made one fucking mistake." He finally trained his gaze on Potter, eyes narrowing. "And I'm certainly not yours."

"Was becoming a Death Eater just 'one fucking mistake' too?"

When had his knee begun bouncing uncontrollably? "Fuck you."

"I was taught it's our choices that show who we really are."

Draco was unable to look Potter straight in the face any longer. "Touching. Glad you've always had all the choices you need."

"Everyone has multiple choices. Always."

"No they don't."

"They do." Potter shrugged. "True, every choice has a consequence good or bad but there is always choice."

"Who the bloody hell are you to judge me? You don't know me."

Potter leaned back in his chair, hands folded in his lap. "That's going to change."

Draco stood, grabbing his robes. "Like hell."

"Before the horror-struck eyes of his guests, the warlock cast aside his wand, and seized a silver dagger. Vowing never to be mastered by his own heart, he hacked it from his chest "

"Gross."

"Mmhmm." Draco nodded. "For one moment, the warlock knelt triumphant, with a heart clutched in each hand, then he fell across the maiden's body, and died."

"That drawing is wicked," Scorpius said, pointing to the ancient, hand-painted illustration in Tales of Beedle the Bard. "I wish my heart looked like that."

"Why?" Draco raised an eyebrow.

"Because then Violet Bulstrode would stop following me around."

"That she might. So, she fancies you, eh?"

"Yeah. But she's weird. She eats chicken skin."

"Lots of people like the skin."

"But she doesn't like it crispy. She likes it all blobby."

Eight-year-old Violet Bulstrode, Millicent Bulstrode's lone daughter whose paternity was quite in question, was one of the most beautiful little girls Draco had ever seen. Funny that, considering her mother (who Draco had always liked as a friend; she had written to him monthly while he had been in Azkaban and had already been over to the manor once since his release). Draco shrugged. "Different people like different things. All you'll eat is cheese on toast and I think that's gross."

"Cheese on toast is not gross."

"It is to me." Draco liked cheese and toast. Separately.

Scorpius was quiet for a long moment and Draco didn't say anything. He still felt a shiv turn inside when he thought of how supper had ended the night before last. It came flooding back every time Scorpius looked at him and he felt the foreign wash of shame over and over again. Draco was not used to either rejection or disdain, his present circumstances aside. Scorpius had wounded him with words; he was not unlike Draco himself.

He didn't like being on the receiving end of his son's emotional outbursts. A hairy heart indeed. It sounded fine to him, the idea of being invulnerable to pain, to rejection, to need. He was already so numb inside from Azkaban. He had freedom, comparatively; however, it was so very sour.

Scorpius finally rolled over, away from Draco, the small of his back warm against Draco's thigh. "I'm tired."

"All right." Draco closed Tales of Beedle the Bard, marking his place with the attached silk ribbon. "I, uh Well, tomorrow is Thursday."

"Uh-huh."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"I thought we might go somewhere. Together."

"I have lessons."

"Right." Draco felt highly uncomfortable. "You'll be done with them by the afternoon."

"I guess."

"Do you want to do something?"

Scorpius shrugged. "I dunno."

"There's Diagon Alley?"

"Mother takes me there all the time."

"Oh." He wracked his brains. "We could look at new broomsticks."

"Granddad got me one for my birthday."

"Would you like a pet?"

"I have a Plimpy."

Draco drew in a deep breath. "Those things I said the night before last? I was angry." Scorpius didn't respond and Draco began to panic. "I You see "

"If you want to go back to Azkaban, then you should just go."

"I truly do not want to go back to Azkaban. Surely you would know that."

Scorpius snorted. "I don't know you."

"I'm your father."

"So what?"

"What do you mean 'so what'?" Draco prodded his son's back. "I may have been gone, but I'm still your father and you'll respect "

"I'm tired!"

"You're angry. I'm angry too. Don't you see? We're all victims here. You, your mother . . . and me. I'm a victim too. Of this whole bloody mess." That was it, he realised. He, too, was a victim. Potter had been right. It wasn't just It wasn't just the what had Potter said? The 'primary victim'. It wasn't just the primary victim who'd been affected. He, Draco, was sitting on his stranger-of-a-son's bed, trying to pretend he knew what to do, what to say, a victim of circumstance. As he'd said, he'd made one mistake. He didn't know how to make this better; long gone were the days where new broomsticks curried favour or facilitated his goals. He was a victim too. The unjustness of it all filled him at once.

"I want to go to sleep now."

"We can fix this." And while Draco was a cool, aloof man prone to tetchy theatrics and utterly appalling episodes of self-centredness, the desire to do well by his son was suddenly at the forefront. But he wasn't used to begging. For anything.

"Will you tell Mother to come and tuck me in?"

"I will ask your mother to come and tuck you in," Draco said stiffly, now wondering who this viperous little shit was. Where had his complacent, wide-eyed boy gone? "But we need to resolve tomorrow. Tomorrow is Thursday. We will be going out. Pick something, or I'll choose for you."

"Fireworks."

"Fireworks?"

"Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes is having a fireworks show tomorrow night. Violet told me. She's going."

"Well, all right." This was progress, aside from the prospect of having to patronise a Weasley shop. "What time does it start?"

"When it's dark."

He honestly wondered if Scorpius was doing this on purpose. "I can't. I'm required to be at home by five."

"Well, that's what I want to do. Mother'll take me. Just leave me alone!" And he huffed underneath his covers, a small, blond lump.

Draco got up. He crossed Scorpius's room, but turned, squinting towards his son. He watched as a small hand crept out from under the covers and switched off the lamp on the bedside table. He heard the clunk of the rare, first-edition Tales of Beedle the Bard as it fell to the floor. He almost went back. "Scorpius, I'll think of something just as fun "

"I said I'm tired."

Draco stood in the darkened doorframe, hand on the knob, the newly born sting of defeat humiliating and raw.

"Draco?"

He sat at the end of the bed, unmoving.

Astoria had propped herself up on one elbow; she lifted her free hand.

"Come to bed."

"In a minute."

Astoria wasn't one to beat around the bush. "What happened with Scorpius?"

Draco stared ahead, silent.

"Draco, please?"

He looked over his shoulder at her and she wiggled her fingers. He rounded the bed to his side and sat down again, this time fixing his gaze on his dresser. Astoria brushed her fingertips at the waistband of his shorts and a shivery thrill snaked its way up his spine. "You're cold."

"Sorry." She dropped her hand away. "Come on, really." She patted the mattress and finally Draco sighed and stood, discarding his shorts. He slid between the sheets, grateful Astoria had folded the heavy feather duvet down to the foot of the bed. Azkaban had been barren and cold, and the first few nights home that he'd actually slept, he'd woken in a panic, suffocating under the hot weight of the covers. He preferred just a sheet covering his feet and legs. Astoria snuggled against his bicep and he took a long tendril of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers absentmindedly. It was silken and fair. "Won't you tell me what happened? Maybe I could help."

It was too embarrassing to recount, really. His own son, his heir, his only child, hated him with the passion of a thousand fiery suns. "I'll work it out."

"Scorpius loves you." She slid her hand down his belly and tipped her face up to nuzzle at his neck. "I love you."

"I know you do," he said, deflecting. He trapped her hand with his own. "I'm exhausted."

"Wouldn't this help relax you?"

No, he thought. No, it wouldn't. Considering the last time he'd gotten off was in Azkaban, by the frantic hands and rough mouth of a fellow Death Eater serving a life sentence, whose name Draco couldn't even remember. "Tomorrow."

She didn't move, but Draco could hear what she was surely thinking: But that's what you said last night . . .

He rolled away and, once again, failed to fuck his perfect wife.

MONTH FOUR

Chained

"Tell me why you're here."

Draco examined his nails, bored. "Oh, you know. That mistake I made."

"Tell me one thing about your mistake. Just one thing."

"One thing? Sure. It's done."

"Is it?"

"Yes. It is." Draco looked at Potter, who was sitting behind his desk, as usual, looking smug and superior in his stupid, sodding glasses and horrific hair. "Done, dead, and buried."

"Nice choice of words."

Draco glared. "Entirely coincidental." He took a long pull off his fourth bottle of water.

"Have you attempted to contact the victim's family since your release?"

He was agog. "Why the bloody hell would I do that?" His throat felt dry, despite his drink. He was afraid if he swallowed, he would gag.

"To make amends?"

"It's over. They know that. I can't change what happened. I don't need to make amends."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't."

"Someone lost their life."

"I'm aware of that." He spread his arms, indicating Potter's office. "Hence our playtime."

"This is a game to you?"

Draco's knee always bounced when he was with Potter. He averted his gaze, biting back a retort that would've undoubtedly had him recalled. "No, Potter, it's not a game."

"What is it, then?"

"It's me, abiding by my terms of license." He couldn't stop clenching his jaw, and between that and the bouncy knee, it was all Draco could do to not pace the floor of Potter's office. Only twelve more months. Twelve months. Only one year to go.

Potter wrote in Draco's file for a full five minutes; Draco remained silent. He finished his water, tossed the empty container in the rubbish bin and cracked open a fifth bottle. Potter always had lined up six bottles of water on his desk for Draco when it was a potions and substance testing day. "Getting enough water?" he asked Draco, not looking up from the file.

"Yeah, plenty. I keep hoping that if I piss enough for you, you'll get tired of ogling my cock."

"Oh. Is that how it is?"

"Yep."

"Like I told you, don't take it personally. All my offenders are tested."

"I am not your whatever anything." God, he hated Potter. "Stop talking about me like you give a shit."

"Why wouldn't I give a shit?" Potter asked, raising his eyes.

"Because you loathe me? Because you have done since we were eleven?" Because you truly never gave a shit before. "And likewise, I might add."

"My goal is to see you succeed in W.H.O.M.P. Therefore, I give a shit."

"How is it that this isn't a conflict of interest? I'd like to request a new whatever you call yourself."

"I've told you I'm an Auror."

"This is clearly a conflict of interest." It totally was!

"How's that?"

"Because because Well, you know why." Draco couldn't keep his hands still now and wondered exactly how spastic he must appear. Nervous, he took another slug of water. "We know each other. From school."

"I know lots of people from school," Potter said, licking his thumb and turning a page in Draco's file. "I fail to see any problem."

Draco motioned, frustrated. "You and I Come on, Potter. You know. We we "

"We what?" Potter looked Draco square on and Draco's stomach fluttered and flip-flopped and he found his mouth was dry again.

"We "

"Yes?"

"Well, we were rivals. You know that." There. He said it.

Potter let out a snort of laughter. The corner of his mouth lifted. "Well, Malfoy, I was unaware of our status as 'rivals'. Maybe you considered me your rival," Harry said, shrugging, "but you were never one of mine."

It stung deep. "You're lying. You followed me all of sixth year."

"Because you were up to something. Yes," Potter said, "sixth year ended so well."

"That was It's a long story."

"I'm sure."

"It is."

"Your request for a new W.H.O.M.P. Auror is denied. How's your family?"

"What?"

"How is your family?" Potter repeated. "How are they doing, what with you back home now after four-and-a-half years?"

He thought of how Scorpius had suddenly started calling him 'Draco' instead of 'Dad', despite Astoria's severe admonishments. He thought of how he couldn't shag his own wife. He thought of Lucius, who rarely left the bedroom suite he and Narcissa occupied, and the shame in his mother's eyes on the rare occasion he caught her looking at him. They conversed politely, but mostly passed each other like ghost ships in the night. His beloved mother, who had always doted on him without question. He thought of the massive, echoing manor he occupied, which seemed especially silent and lonely at night, the ticking from a handful of clocks his only company.

"My family is fine. Not that it's any of your business."

"It is my business. It's my business to ensure you are in a safe environment. Family support is important when you're on license."

"What would you know about family?" Draco sneered.

"How's that water coming along?"

Draco's bladder was getting full and the sensation of dread that always came over him at the prospect of an encounter with one of Potter's purple sparkly cups began niggling at him. "Brilliantly."

"Ready to give a sample?"

"Soon." He trashed the fifth bottle and opened the last one.

"Your spot for victim reparation lessons has come up." Potter began filling out the triplicate substances testing form.

"Forget it. I'm not going."

Potter gave him a long look and set the paperwork aside. "I want to show you something," he said, and flipped through Draco's file. He produced a rather ominous set of parchments, more official-looking at first glance than Draco had ever seen. "Read." Potter pushed the papers across his desk.

Draco read. His stomach fell into his shoes. "You're recalling me?"

"You're not appropriate for this programme."

"Wha Yes, I bloody well am!" His innate fear of Azkaban exploded; he couldn't squelch it. "I'm doing everything you bloody well tell me to "

"This programme is for offenders who want to make positive changes and take responsibility for their actions. From what I see, you're not interested in either."

Draco stood, still holding the papers. "Bollocks. I'm doing everything "

Potter stood as well, but Draco was taller. Potter looked into Draco's eyes and for the first time Draco felt that Potter was really seeing him. "You're doing nothing, Malfoy."

Draco threw the recall papers across the desktop, not caring that they skittered right across the cheap surface and onto the floor. "Send me back then! What the hell do I care?" Crap. What was he saying?

Potter had come around his desk and was now so close that Draco caught his scent. Despite the dilapidated surroundings, the awful metal and paneled desk, the flimsy chairs, the dingy walls desperately in need of a paint job, Potter smelt rich and fine, and when he breathed it was sweet. A memory flashed of a dark head bobbing between Draco's splayed thighs, cold fingers rubbing hard at his sac and balls, the painfully hard slab of rock that had been the only seat in his cell freezing against his arse as he tipped his head back and came into the mouth of some other prisoner while the Dementors hovered, their rasping, rattling breaths slicing through his pathetic reverie. Draco locked the memory down, swift and hard, and he met Potter's eyes.

"Tell me why you'd rather go back to Azkaban," Potter ordered. Their eyes were almost level. "Why would you rather go back to prison than comply with W.H.O.M.P.?"

Draco's jaw was so tight he thought his teeth might crack. "I do not want to go back to Azkaban," he said, as evenly as possible.

"Then it's time to get with the programme," Potter replied, and Draco suddenly understood that Potter was angry. "Because all I have to do is check two boxes and sign my name on those forms, and you'll be right back where you started. Fancy that?"

Draco swallowed another hot retort and hated Harry Potter even more, for having control over him, over his loved ones, over his destiny. "No."

Their faces were inches apart.

"When I ask you a question I expect you to answer fully and honestly. When I direct you to attend lessons, you'll do so. When I tell you to piss in a cup, you'll drop your trousers. If I order you to perform unpaid work, you will. And if I bloody well ask you about the victim of your crime, you will answer me."

The honking from the Muggle traffic below filtered through Potter's office and the air seemed still.

"Do you understand?" Potter asked, not budging an inch.

It took him almost a full minute. "Yes."

"Good." Potter finally stepped back and retrieved the fallen papers. He aligned them and slid them back into Draco's file. "Your recall papers will remain at the top of your file. Just as a reminder."

Draco was so enraged he couldn't even quantify it.

"Ready to take that piss test now?"

Draco stalked past Potter, grabbing a purple sparkly cup on the way out.

Harry Potter was making notes in Draco Malfoy's file, not really bothered that there were three other offenders in the waiting room who had been there over an hour. Sometimes he got backed up that was just the nature of the job. He never held expectations of how his day might go. Some days everyone showed up, other days no one, and everything in between. One thing was certain: it was always challenging to manage people who hated his mere existence and wanted to spend absolutely no time in his company. Yet there was that part deep inside him that revered the possibility of change, of redemption on the behalf of others. He liked facilitating a moment of insight in an offender, of watching the gradual blossoming of change. Harry was tough, but he felt a purpose in what he did, a sense of personal satisfaction.

W.H.O.M.P. was just over two years old and Harry and the W.H.O.M.P. oversight committee through the Wizengamot had placed 117 offenders on license with the programme. So far, only two had been recalled, both having been incorrigible and, truthfully, psychopathic.

He held his cards close to his chest when talking with Malfoy, but he had actually recused himself from vetting Malfoy's case when it had come up for review, avoiding any potential conflict of interest.

"What's the conflict of interest?" his supervisor had asked him at the time.

"Just a bloke I knew at Hogwarts."

"Were you friends?"

Harry had laughed. "No."

"So this is someone you just knew by name and face?"

"Well Yeah. Basically."

"So where's the conflict?" The superintendent had raised an eyebrow. "Potter, what are you not telling me?"

"Nothing. There's nothing to tell."

"Well, if you can't vet this case, how could you possibly supervise it fairly?"

"The rules are the same for everyone," he'd said.

"If there's something I need to know, you'll report it to me?"

"Yup."

He hadn't sought out to supervise Malfoy's case once it had been accepted. The superintendent had assigned it to him because it was, one, a high-profile case and, two, only Harry and one other Auror supervised the most serious crimes of violence and Harry had been next on the assignment rotation. Most of Harry's offenders had been convicted of serious assault or sexual offenses; Malfoy was his lone homicide case. W.H.O.M.P. rarely vetted a homicide, but the circumstances of Malfoy's case were far from the typical crime where a person was killed.

But the fact was Malfoy was guilty of killing someone; he had pleaded Guilty to the Wizengamot, had accepted a sentence to Azkaban for five-and-a-half years.

Malfoy had killed someone.

Harry found himself doodling in the margins of the top sheet in Malfoy's file, going over a figure-eight again and again with his quill until the ink bled through to the pages underneath. He didn't like Malfoy, but something about Malfoy compelled him to keep pushing, to keep picking, to keep digging deeper. He hadn't given two shits about Malfoy at Hogwarts, except as one might for a fly on a windscreen, but that was then and this was now and something new was playing at him.

Malfoy was different than any other offender Harry had supervised. He was haughty, cold, and so removed from his own emotions that Harry wondered if the Dementors had managed a partial kiss. Malfoy had money; his other offenders were on the dole, as no one wanted to hire a former Azkaban prisoner, especially one who had been convicted of a violent offense. Malfoy had a job he didn't need. When Harry had checked with Theodore Nott, Nott had been exceedingly tight-lipped about Malfoy, only offering that, yes, Malfoy was coming in as he was supposed to be and was satisfactorily performing his job duties. The only interesting tidbit Nott had offered was that Malfoy hadn't cashed any of his cheques in the seven weeks he had been employed.

"Why's that?" Harry had asked, making a note of this in the little notebook he carried around in his pocket.

Nott had shrugged and looked at Harry with the detached arrogance of the moneyed. "I expect he doesn't need it."

Furthermore, Malfoy had no prior criminal offences, which was highly unusual for an Azkaban offender. Blimey, Harry thought. When Malfoy'd fucked up he'd sure reached for the brass ring, for the mother of all offences. Malfoy was educated, again not exactly a trait of the criminally-oriented. He had a broad social network. He'd had a different profession than the one he was dabbling in now for the sake of his license.

Malfoy was forbidden to work in his former position, though. With good reason.

He had an intact marriage and one child, unlike Harry's offenders who ripped through serial relationships like they were shuffling a deck of cards, leaving various levels of dysfunctional men, women, and grotty diseases in their wake, not to mention the countless neglected, deprived children who were left with only one parent. Malfoy had no history of potions abuse or problems with any substances. Harry was required to test him regularly, but he'd give it six months and then possibly remove Malfoy's testing sanction and just require the occasional sample.

No, Malfoy's Achilles heel was burnt into the flesh of his left arm. It had taken the committee twice as long to decide on Malfoy, due to his prior Death Eater activities. The superintendent had discussed it with Harry, despite Harry having recused himself from Malfoy's vetting.

"Did you know he was a Death Eater?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

Harry had remained silent for a very long time, letting his mind wander backwards. He remembered Malfoy's thin, pointy face, pale and wan, full of reluctance and fear, peering into his own, when Harry had been on his knees in Malfoy Manor, at the hands of Fenrir Greyback.

I can't I can't be sure, Malfoy had said, not even looking at Harry. And then, I don't know. Malfoy had turned his back on Harry and had not identified him to his fellow Death Eaters.

For the first time ever, seventeen years later, Harry seriously understood that Malfoy might have been killed for doing so.

"I think," Harry had said to the superintendent, "if the committee otherwise approves, then . . . he could be given a chance." One good turn deserved another. Perhaps.

Harry dipped his quill and began writing again. Offender appears as required on scheduled report day. Offender advised of place in victim reparation course; offender resistant to placement and states he will refuse to complete this programme. Offender advised victim reparation is a requirement of continued license and further advised that supervising W.H.O.M.P. Auror is prepared to file a notice of recall with the Wizengamot if offender fails to comply. Offender agrees to attend programme. Offender continues to be resistant to supervising Auror and fails to comply with requests for relevant personal information. Offender denies contact with victim's family. Denies use of illegal potions or substances, or excessive use of alcohol. Denies any new law infractions. Denies contact with any Auror or Aurors outside of W.H.O.M.P. Offender presents verification of continued employment and income. Potions and substance testing conducted this day. - HJP. He picked up the recall papers and stared at them, leaning back, searching for what he was overlooking with Malfoy. It came to him.

Malfoy had a little bit of light inside. Harry had glimpsed it once. Only once.

Truth told, part of him wanted to brutally snuff it out.

But part of him didn't.

MONTH SIX

Scratching Beneath the Surface

The entire Malfoy family sat stiff and silent on the enormous couch in Malfoy Manor's sitting room, facing Harry Potter.

Lucius Malfoy; Narcissa Malfoy; Draco Malfoy; Astoria Malfoy; Scorpius Malfoy.

They all looked so alike it was vaguely incestuous.

Potter leaned forwards, elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands together. "So, Malfoy uh, Draco Draco's told you as part of his programme I'll be visiting him here regularly. I know we've seen each other several times previously."

Silence.

"You're aware it's a requirement of his license."

Nothing.

Potter scanned the Malfoys' faces, shaking his head a touch. "It would help Mal Draco if you'd cooperate."

Draco was relishing the moment with a smirk. Potter had to be beyond uncomfortable, and that made Draco savagely glad. They were on his terms in the manor. He stared at Potter, quiet.

A full five minutes passed. No one moved. And then Narcissa Malfoy tilted her head and shifted an inch, her eyes narrowing. "What exactly is it that you wish to know?" Her voice was as icy as ever.

"Are you willing to allow Draco to continue to reside with you while he's on license?"

"I think that would be obvious. This is his home."

"Do you own this place, Malfoy?" Potter asked.

But it was Lucius Malfoy's posh, nasally voice that cut through the silence. "Ours is an ancestral home. It's as much my son's as it is my own. It's likely you might not know of our ways. Am I correct?"

"Lucius," Potter acknowledged in a clipped tone; he returned his attention to Draco. "Fine. You own your home. Are there any illegal potions or illicit substances on the premises?"

"Feel free to look."

"That might take a while."

"I pay my taxes. You're on my Knut. What do I care?"

"You will not touch a thing in this house without an order from the Wizengamot," Narcissa said. "You do not have my permission to look at anything."

Potter looked unimpressed. "As we've previously discussed, I don't need your permission. When you agreed to allow Draco to live here, you committed to abide by his terms of license, which includes the unconditional search of his residence at my discretion."

Narcissa's mouth twisted into a frown and Lucius tutted. "Ridiculous," he said. "Draco doesn't take illegal potions or substances."

"I've told him a thousand times, Father," Draco said, amused. "But he doesn't believe me."

"And I've told you a thousand times that it's not personal. Everyone in the programme is tested."

"Well, I'm not just anyone."

Potter gave a wry laugh. "Yeah, actually, you are."

The ensuing silence was painful.

"What's that?" a small voice asked.

Draco and Astoria had purposely kept Scorpius in the background during Potter's previous visits, not wanting him to be exposed to Draco's supervision conditions. At Draco's last appointment, however, Potter had advised Draco that he expected all family members to be present for his visits. Draco leaned forwards again, peering around Astoria, who was like a board propped on the couch. She hadn't moved since Potter had arrived. Scorpius was pointing towards Potter's belt; it was peeking out from underneath his robes.

"What is that?" Scorpius repeated.

"Son, hush," Draco said, irritated by Scorpius's innate curiosity. There was absolutely nothing interesting about Harry Potter. Nothing.

"It's all right," Potter said, moving the front of his robes aside. "It's my wand. I keep it in a special holder. What's your name?"

"Scorpius." He had scooted his little bum to the edge of the couch, as if making to rise.

Draco reached behind Astoria and took up a handful of Scorpius's shirt and pulled him back. "Sit."

"Relax, Malfoy," Potter said, a twinge of annoyance creeping into his voice. "Kids are curious."

"Well, he's my son and he'll just have to keep wondering."

"Draco," Scorpius said, not looking over, "I want to see."

Astoria made a small noise in her throat, as if she were going to speak, but Draco closed his hand over hers, squeezing tightly. She was instantly rigid again.

"Your son calls you 'Draco'?" Potter asked, raising an eyebrow.

Draco's confidence faltered. "It's really not your concern."

But Potter was looking at Scorpius keenly now. He leaned forwards again, catching Scorpius's eye. "Why do you call your father by his first name, Scorpius?" he asked. "Is everything all right in your house?"

Scorpius trained his large grey eyes on Potter and stared, suspicious. Draco pointed a finger at him. "Don't answer that."

"Why don't you want him to answer?" Potter asked Draco.

"Because my affairs don't concern a nine-year-old."

"Your affairs concern everyone living with you."

"Actually, they don't."

Potter's attention was back on Scorpius. "Scorpius, do you know why I'm here today?"

Scorpius was still regarding Potter warily. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to a different section of Potter's belt.

"Fuck." Draco fell back against the back of sofa. His stupid knee started up and he raised his eyes to the ceiling, pissed off.

"Draco!"

"Son."

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had turned together, aghast. They stared at Draco as if he'd sprouted horns.

"Well!"

Astoria reached towards Draco tentatively, but then put her hand back in her lap, apparently thinking twice.

"Don't be uncouth," Narcissa said, under her breath. But the awkward stillness of the encounter might as well have been Sonorus. Draco glanced at his mother. A spot of colour had appeared above each cheek.

"What?" Draco asked, petulant. He was baiting her.

"We'll discuss it later."

"What, you don't like it when I say 'fuck'? Too much for your delicate senses to handle?" He sighed, waving a hand dismissively. "Blame it on Azkaban, I suppose. Strips you of all sense of propriety. Father knows, too. Right, Father?" Draco made a show of looking over to Lucius.

Lucius stared straight ahead. "Will you be requiring me for anything further?" he asked, clearly to Potter.

"Do you have any concerns about Mal Draco that I should be aware of?"

"I do not."

"You're certain?"

"Quite."

"Then I'll just continue here with Draco. You're free to leave."

Lucius swanned from the room like royalty. He did not look back.

Draco looked over and was horrified to see his son standing. Scorpius had moved towards Potter. "Scorpius," Draco barked out. "Sit down."

"What's that?"

Potter pulled something leather and square from his belt and held it out to Scorpius. "Go on, take it. You can look." Draco rolled his eyes as his son reached out. "Those are my credentials. Open it."

Scorpius fumbled for a moment; he opened the sleeve like a wallet and studied its contents with an eagle eye. "What's this?" He pointed to a gold, shiny object.

"That's my badge. It shows that I work for the Ministry of Magic. See here " Potter pointed to several raised words. "Ministry of Magic. And this bottom part says which department I work for. Right there."

"Department of Magical Law Enforcement," Scorpius read. "Auror Office." He looked up at Potter. "You're an Auror?"

"I am."

"Aurors catch the baddies."

"That's right."

"So Draco's a baddie?" Scorpius asked plainly.

Draco stood. "That's enough "

But Potter was studying Scorpius. "You know what I think? I think that everyone sometimes feels like a baddie."

"Stop talking to my son, Potter. Now."

"You wouldn't be here if Draco wasn't a baddie."

"I don't believe this." Draco made to grab his son around the waist and physically remove him from the room, like a wayward sack of potatoes. But Potter threw a warning glance at him and pointed at the couch.

"Sit down, Malfoy. I want to talk a little more with Scorpius."

"Detective Chief Inspector?" Scorpius read from Potter's credentials.

"That means my job is to keep the community safe from crime."

"Bad crimes?"

"Sometimes."

"Is it scary?"

"Sometimes, yeah."

"I know about you."

"Do you?"

"You killed the Dark Lord."

"Mmm." Potter said, noncommittal. He cocked his head. "What else do you know about the Dark Lord?"

"Potter." Draco was on his feet, warning, but Scorpius paid him no mind.

"I know that you duelled him and he died."

"That's true."

"You beat him all by yourself."

Potter smiled and a reluctant warmth crept through Draco's insides. "I actually had a tonne of help there. You wouldn't believe how much help I had to have."

"Some baddies should be killed." Scorpius said it matter-of-factly, as if it were established fact. He handed Potter's credentials back and watched as Potter refastened them to his belt.

"Are you quite done?" Draco sniped. "Boy Who Lived . . . Killed . . . Oppressed . . . whatever it is they're calling you these days."

"Amusing, Malfoy. Scorpius," Potter asked steadily, "do you know why I'm here today?"

"Because Draco made a mistake and you're making sure he doesn't do it again?"

"Do you know what kind of mistake your dad made?"

Scorpius looked at Potter; he shook his head. "No."

Potter nodded, seeming to consider this. "Okay. Well, it was good to meet you today."

Scorpius was looking at Potter with something between awe and admiration. "You too."

Draco could have puked.

Potter required Draco to at least show him the portions of the manor Draco occupied, and once they were in his and Astoria's bedroom, Potter made Draco open every single drawer, cubby, and cabinet in his bedroom suite. He checked everything, not bothering to be particularly neat about it.

"What's this for?" Potter asked, holding up a potions bottle in the bathroom.

"I sometimes have trouble falling asleep." It was the first thing Astoria had said since Potter'd arrived.

"Dreamless Sleep?"

"That's right."

"I'm sorry, but Dreamless Sleep isn't sanctioned by W.H.O.M.P. I'm going to have to confiscate this."

"Why?" Draco asked. "That's Astoria's, not mine."

"It can't be on the premises. It's potentially abusable." Potter was writing on a new triplicate set of parchment that Draco hadn't seen before. He motioned to Draco. "Initial here."

Draco took Potter's quill, reading the parchment. W.H.O.M.P. Offender Confiscation Inventory Potter had written Dreamless Sleep - Potion - Opened. "Why should my wife have to suffer because of my mistake?" he demanded, scrawling his initials where Potter had indicated.

"That's how it works out sometimes."

"Rubbish." Draco tossed down the quill and folded his arms.

"Then what can I use for sleep?" Astoria asked, sounding miffed, as Harry placed the Dreamless Sleep inside a small paper sack he'd produced from his bag. He pulled his wand and pointed it at the bag, which sealed itself shut. Words appeared on the sack.

W.H.O.M.P.
Malfoy, Draco L.
24601
Dreamless Sleep (Potion)

"Go to your apothecary and talk with the Wizarding chemist there for help with sleep aids," Potter said to Astoria. "I've heard there's natural stuff."

"I've tried them. They don't really help."

"I'm sorry." The Dreamless Sleep was safely inside Potter's bag. "Do you have any other potions or substances I need to know about?"

"Just concentrated Murtlap soak and a bottle of Dr. Ubbly's. Oh, and some Pepper-Up."

"Those are all fine."

Potter insisted on seeing Scorpius's room. Once they were inside the room, Potter didn't open or look into anything, but rather removed the leather holder from his belt and slid something out from behind his identification. It was a small card. He put it on Scorpius's dresser, propped against the Plimpy's fishbowl. Potter turned to Draco and Astoria. "This? Is not to be touched, moved, or otherwise tampered with. When I visit, I'll be checking to see that it's still here. Do not alter the information in any way or attempt to destroy it."

Draco picked it up straightaway, holding it close to his face so he could examine it. It was Potter's card with his name, title, and contact information. He looked up. "Scorpius doesn't need this. What, are you mad?"

"Put it down. I decide whether Scorpius needs it or not." Potter snapped the buckles of his bag shut. "I'm done."

"Thank Merlin's ugly, tatty beard," Draco said. He felt something inside him release and he didn't feel trapped in his own home anymore. "I'll let you out."

But Astoria put out her hand. "I'll do it, sweetheart," she said mildly. "This has been stressful for you. I'll show Mr. Potter out."

Harry knew a desperate woman when he saw one and Astoria Malfoy was ready to explode.

They walked without speaking through the maze-like corridors of Malfoy Manor until they reached the entry hall. Harry turned to Astoria.

"Thanks for showing me out. You can expect me at least once a month."

She didn't answer, but was imploring him with her eyes, beseeching. He could tell there was so much she wanted to say.

Not knowing what kind of listening charms might be in place at Malfoy Manor, Harry dropped his voice. "Are you being harmed in any way?"

"No." She shook her head. But she held his gaze, as if willing him to read her thoughts.

"You're safe here?"

"Yes, yes. I'm fine. I mean . . ."

"And Scorpius? He's safe as well?"

"Draco's not a violent man, Mr. Potter. It's just that. . ."

"Yes?" he prompted her.

"Something's wrong," she whispered, and her eyes filled with tears. "With Draco."

"He hasn't been out very long," Harry said. "It can take a long time to readjust after leaving Azkaban. What exactly is wrong?"

But she just looked at him.

"Here." Harry dug out another card and pressed it against her palm. "If you have any concerns about Draco, you can come and see me at my office at any time. Confidentially." He felt her fingers curl around the card and take it. "You don't need an appointment. Just come in."

Astoria nodded and then, surprisingly, reached inside her robes and slid her hand against what Harry could only guess was her breast; she seemed to be tucking it away. She caught Harry wondering. "It's the last place he'd check." She looked positively miserable.

MONTH SEVEN

Glimmer

"Seriously? What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

Potter looked up from the bench where he was sitting. "Malfoy?"

"I can't even take my son to a bloody playground without you harassing and following me!"

"First, I'm doing paperwork," Potter said, giving Draco an appraising look. "Second? I was here first."

"Well, what other playgrounds do you know of? Because I'm not staying in the same park as you "

Potter scanned the play area. "Scorpius seems to be having fun. You're going to drag him away because you can't man up?"

"Oh, I can 'man up'."

"Then shut it and find somewhere to sit."

Draco sat down on the bench next to Potter. Their thighs touched. "Better?"

"I was thinking somewhere farther away."

"Yeah, well, this isn't your office. You can't tell me where to sit. What're you writing?" Draco leaned over, craning his neck. He recognised a W.H.O.M.P. file when he saw one. "Are you writing about me?"

"I do have other offenders under my supervision." Potter flipped up the jacket cover so Draco couldn't see what he was writing or whose file it was.

"I'll bet none of them are as interesting as me."

"You'd be surprised."

"What're you doing here anyway? I thought you lived in Ghastly Hollow or wherever."

"And you live in Wiltshire. Yet here you are."

"Scorpius wanted to come into London." Draco was still trying to peek inside the file Potter was working on. "It's the first time I've been able to get him to come out with me." He wanted to take the words back immediately, wanted to turn time back just fifteen seconds so he could bite his tongue. He'd said too much.

"So he's warming to you?"

"No. Yes? I don't know."

"Is he still calling you 'Draco'?"

Draco inched closer to Potter, trying again to peek. "It's none of your business. Say, about those bloody stupid victim lessons "

"Malfoy, I make it my practise to not interact with my offenders outside of W.H.O.M.P."

Draco snorted. "So much for giving a shit."

"It's not that."

"What is it, then?"

"There just needs to be a line between work and my private life. A firm boundary. I'm outside the office. I'm not working today."

"You're quite clearly working," Draco said, flicking at the file in Potter's lap.

"I'm not on the clock, so technically I'm not working." Potter continued writing.

"Anyway, about those lessons. . ."

Potter sighed and closed the file. He looked at Draco. "Fine. What'd'you want to know?"

Draco found he didn't even know what to ask. "Well. . ." He stared back at Potter; nervous pangs fluttering in his stomach.

"It's called victim reparation," Potter said, as if used to having to break the ice. "They're a series of lessons addressing victim rights and how to make amends for your crime."

Draco couldn't think of how to respond. He dropped his gaze, feeling uncomfortable; he couldn't figure out what to do with his hands, so he began absently twisting at the watch on his right wrist. The smooth metal and glass was cool against his fingers.

"They're group lessons."

Draco was instantly defensive. "I won't sit in a room full of criminals, Potter."

Potter's voice was even. "Yes, you will."

Desperation welled. "I can't."

"Tell me why you can't."

Draco looked up, still fingering his watch. A short distance away he saw the tow-headed blur of his son as Scorpius whipped around the playground, followed close behind by a dark-haired boy in a striped shirt. And the knowledge of the damage he'd likely done to Scorpius cascaded over him like a veil. His throat tightened and he felt sick to his stomach. "I just can't." The sound of children playing all around was a cacophony.

Potter was considering him; he could feel it. "You remember the day I asked you to tell me one thing about your offense?"

Draco shrugged, still staring ahead.

"Do that now."

But Draco was frozen inside.

"One thing."

"It was a Wednesday." Where had his voice come from?

"It happened on a Wednesday," Potter confirmed.

"Yes."

"Anything else?"

"No."

"All right."

"How many . . ."

"How many what?"

Draco watched Scorpius like a hawk. "How many other people will be there?"

"For the lessons?"

Draco nodded. He worked his watch all the way around his wrist; the band tugged at the fine hairs there.

"Usually between six and ten."

Draco clucked. Rolling his eyes, he sat back against the bench. His shoulder brushed against Potter's. "Brilliant. Stuck in a room full of Azkaban scum."

"What does that make you, then?"

"Not that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He glanced sideways.

"Malfoy."

"What?"

"You have to address it."

He felt like he couldn't breathe.

"You won't put it behind you if you don't."

Draco looked at Potter. "I'm supposed to put this behind me?"

"It can't be undone." Potter was running his fingernail across the top of the W.H.O.M.P. file on his lap, back and forth.

"Wow, thanks for that amazing insight." He looked up at the fluffy white clouds, remembering how it had always rained at Azkaban. Always. The water crawled down the stone walls there, never-ending.

"Seriously. I'm advising you to stop acting like a huge dick."

"Are you allowed to speak to me like that, Potter? Because I don't appreciate it. I am not acting like a huge dick."

"Actually, you are."

"I still have that Ombuds whatever I still have that probation services card you gave me, you know."

Potter laughed. "Lodge a complaint then."

"Right. Like that would go anywhere."

"You know I'm right."

"I know no such thing." He twisted his watch around and around, watching as Scorpius and the other boy clambered up into the swings. "Right about what?"

"About addressing it."

"It won't help."

"You don't know that."

"It's not going to help, okay?" There went his knee.

"Ah. You're afraid."

Bloody well right he was afraid. He was terrified. Not a night went by that he didn't wake with a start, the darkness closing him in on himself where his mind replayed that day endlessly, and regret ate him alive. If it felt this bad not talking about it, then letting it out would gut him beyond hope. He was frightened to peel back his layers absolutely petrified. He honestly didn't think he'd survive it; it would kill him too.

And Harry Potter had just called him a coward.

"Go back to your damn file." He unclasped his watch and let it slide off his wrist into his left hand. There, he slipped his fingers through the band and began rolling it like a Muggle Ferris wheel, over and up and down again. He did this when he got nervous.

"That's quite a watch," Potter observed.

"It's very expensive."

"Naturally."

"Pansy gave it to me, when we left Hogwarts." He put it back on and refastened it, shaking his sleeve down to cover the watch so he wouldn't fiddle with it any more. "It's engraved."

Potter paused. "Pansy Parkinson?"

"Obviously," Draco snapped, infuriated at Potter's stupid question. "How many Pansys are there?"

Potter lifted a shoulder. "I wouldn't know. What's it say?"

"What does what say?"

"You said it was engraved."

Draco looked at Potter as if Potter were mental. "It's private, arse."

Potter took this in stride, nodding.

"As if you ever cared about us."

"Us?"

"Yeah, 'us'. Us Slytherins."

"Is this when I get out my violin?"

"God. You're even more of a wanker off the clock."

"Yeah?"

"Completely."

"I'm just noting your thinking errors."

"'Thinking errors'?" Draco asked, not understanding. "I can think, thanks."

"Then tell me about one other person who was affected by your crime. Not the primary victim. Someone else."

"That's easy." Draco snorted. "Me." He pointed at his chest. "I'm a victim too."

"You're a victim?" Potter looked disbelieving. "How so?"

"Because I went to Azkaban. My family was left alone for four-and-a-half years. My career is over. My friends think I'm a freak. My parents won't even look at me. My son despises me. My wife I can't even " He could feel a muscle in his jaw twitching; he couldn't even begin to put a name to the emotions he was feeling. "I'm owned. By you."

"Why did you go to Azkaban?"

"The Wizengamot "

"No," Potter said. "Why did you go to Azkaban?"

"Because I made a mistake."

"You committed a crime."

"I made a mistake."

"Why was your family left behind for four-and-a-half years? Because you committed a crime and went to prison. Why is your career over? Because you committed that crime at work. Your friends don't know how to act around you because you committed a crime and they don't know what to say. Your son is likely afraid you'll be recalled to Azkaban, because you committed a crime. This happened because of your actions." Potter held Draco's gaze. "Malfoy, you are not the victim."

"Yes, I am!" His anger surged. "One of them anyway."

"No, you're not." Potter opened the file he had been working on. "You'll learn."

"You can't deny all those things have happened to me!"

"Yeah, they happened. But it doesn't make you a victim. It makes you accountable. There's a difference." Potter had started writing in the file again.

"So you're just going to ignore me now?" Draco demanded.

"Go ahead if you want. I'll listen."

"I don't have anything to say."

"Then there's nothing to ignore."

Draco wasn't sure what to do. "Everything about my. . . mistake. . . is in my file."

"Mmhmm."

It got very still.

"We weren't even meant to work that Wednesday," Draco blurted out.

"Okay." Potter looked at him.

Draco remained silent, although he made to open his mouth several times. He couldn't say any more. He shook his head and leaned forwards, elbows on his knees.

"All right," Potter said, "Not yet. But you've told me two things."

"I bloody well didn't mean to."

"It's a start." Potter seemed sincere. "You did well."

Draco was embarrassed. "Don't patronise me! I'm not looking for your approval."

"You're looking to stay out of Azkaban, though."

"Obviously."

"I'm just saying you took a step."

"Well, I don't feel any different," Draco said, a frown twisting his mouth. "Shouldn't I be a brand new man now, Potter? Don't I get even a little reward for my successful attempt to 'reintegrate'?"

"You don't get a reward for following the rules. You're supposed to comply."

"Haven't you heard of incentives?"

"I have, and I use them. Just not with you, not yet."

"Ooh, an incentive?" Draco adopted a confidential tone. "Here's what I want a brilliant Harry Potter doll! You know, one that comes with my wand, a Dementor, a dead snowy owl, and a wee little Horcrux inside "

"Hilarious "

" one that can speak Parseltongue when you pull a string in its back "

"All right, that's "

"Can I get Cedric Diggory too?" Draco pulled an innocent face. "Would he come with a Triwizard Cup or a "

"Do not." Potter's head shot up. "Don't."

Draco was entirely used to hacking people off, thus was unconcerned. He stretched and leaned back against the bench, draping his arm. He brushed shoulders with Potter again, which made his belly surge. "Don't lose your hair. I was just having you on."

Potter was looking at him with those strange eyes of his. "It's not amusing."

"I have a dark sense of humour."

Potter gestured towards Draco's left forearm, which was safely hidden beneath the sleeve of his jumper. "Clearly."

"Oh, ha. Aren't you ever so funny?"

"I need to get back to my files, Malfoy, so "

"Dad!"

"Draco!"

Draco looked. Scorpius and the dark-haired boy he'd been playing with were running towards him and Potter. He did a double-take. The other boy was as much a replica of Potter as Scorpius was of himself, minus the glasses. He blinked hard and squinted. "Potter, is that your "

"Dad!" the boy said to Potter, coming to a halt; he grasped Potter's knee, steadying himself. "Can we go get something to drink?" The boy's eyes drifted over to Draco; he looked at Scorpius. "Is that your dad?"

"Yeah," Scorpius said, standing just in front of Draco, but not touching him. "Is that your dad?" His eyes widened; he recognised Potter from the recent home visit. "Your dad's an Auror?"

"Yeah," the other boy said, grabbing onto Potter's index finger and pulling. "Could we go for some fizzy pop or something? I'm thirsty." He let Potter's hand go and pointed sideways. "This is Scorpius."

"Yes, we've met before," Potter said, looking at Scorpius. "All right?"

"All right. What're you doing?" Scorpius looked at Potter with outright admiration.

Draco shifted and rolled his eyes. "God," he said, huffing. "Scorpius, leave off on Potter. He's busy."

"S'all right. Just doing paperwork today. So, you and Al have been playing?"

Draco leaned forwards, regarding the dark-haired boy again. "Al? This your sprog, Potter?"

Al looked right back at Draco. "Who're you?"

"As you observed earlier, I'm Scorpius's father."

"What's your name?"

"Draco," Scorpius said, before Draco could respond. "Draco Malfoy. He's my dad, but I call him 'Draco'."

"Why?"

"Because he "

Draco clapped a hand onto Scorpius's shoulder. "Enough," he said, through his teeth, a plastic smile casing his face. "Quite."

Scorpius shrugged out from under his touch. "Can we get drinks? Please? I'm hot."

"You're supposed to be hot when you play hard."

"Malfoy's right," Potter said, pointing past the basilisk slide. "There's the water fountain."

"But the water tastes weird!" Al complained.

"Well, we're not going for drinks this time. There's the water fountain. Take it or leave it."

"I see your Fascism extends to the home as well. How pleasant," Draco noted.

"But we always go for drinks. I told Scorpius you'd take us!"

"I can't this time."

"Why not?"

Potter put his hand over his son's. "Because I know Scorpius's father from my work. And you know because of how my job is that I can't tell you anything more than that. I'm sorry, but we can't go for drinks."

Al's eyes snapped over to Scorpius. "Your dad's on W.H.O.M.P.?"

"So?" Scorpius raised his chin defiantly.

"Go and play," Potter said, rather gently. "Al, W.H.O.M.P. is about making good choices, not bad ones. Remember that."

"So " Al looked between Draco and Potter. " you can't be friends?"

"No!" Draco and Potter blurted it out together. Draco felt the heat rise in his ears at the very idea. He glanced at Potter warily, who seemed to be studying the cover of his file.

Al looked at Scorpius. "Then we can't be friends," he said, almost musing. "Sorry. Anyway, I'm going back." He took off towards the playground, yelling, "James! Lily! Let's find Nifflers "

It took Scorpius a moment. His brow furrowed, and then he scowled. "Hang on!" he shouted, visibly affronted. "Wait!" Draco made a grab for the back of Scorpius's shirt, but Scorpius was gone, chasing after Al Potter.

A wave of injustice rose in him like a tidal flood on behalf of his son, his son who had done absolutely nothing wrong except to be born to, well, him. And that was complete rubbish because to be born a Malfoy was an asset, not a disqualifier. The Malfoy name carried significant weight in the Wizarding world, all blunders aside, and the very idea that his son had essentially begged some half-blooded Potter spawn for friendship was intolerable.

Even more egregious, the current of anger humming inside him had morphed from iniquity into the blistering sting of d?vu.

Draco looked sideways at Potter, who had returned to his file.

But Potter just kept on writing.

MONTH EIGHT

Outside the Box

"Hey!"

Harry looked up. "Hey," he said. "Want my chair?"

"Yes, definitely." Hermione swept into the room, brushing behind Harry as he made his way around his crappy desk. She sunk into it. "Ahh. Thanks, Harry."

"How's your back?"

"Better. I'm going for treatments three times a week. I'll be tip-top in no time." Hermione had slipped on the stairs at the Burrow several weeks before and had landed smack flat on her bum, royally tweaking her back. She reached behind her, massaging just between her hips. "I've been on my feet all day. What's going on?"

"I figure if anyone would know it'd be you," Harry said, occupying the seat his offenders normally took; he stretched his legs out, crossing his feet at the ankles, and laced his fingers behind his head.

"Oh, that's nice of you to say!" Hermione always pinked up at a compliment, chuffed. "What do you need to know?"

"Wandlore."

"Wandlore's complex."

"I know."

"What about it?"

"A wand changes its allegiance when you defeat its master, yeah?"

"Right."

"So, when you forcibly remove someone's wand from them, the wand bends its will to you, its new owner. And all other wands that person controls will have their wills bent as well."

"Yes, that's correct. Most times."

"What if you were to give someone a wand?"

"Well, they could use it, sure."

"No, what I mean is, what if you give someone a wand that answers to you, but you're master of more than one wand? Can you gift the will of just one wand?"

Hermione leaned forwards, resting her elbows on Harry's desk. She looked at him very keenly. "Why are you asking this?"

Harry shrugged. "Just got to thinking."

"Rubbish!" Hermione scoffed, suspicious. "Don't lie to me, Harry Potter. I won't tolerate another repeat of the zucchini versus cucumber debacle "

"Oh, come off it. Ron and I were young "

"It was just last year and you know it." She pointed a finger. "Those Kappas could have killed your children "

"All right, all right." Harry was laughing. "I'm just wondering. That's all."

"Then I suggest the Ministry library."

"Can't you just tell me?"

"No, I can't," Hermione said, fixing her jaw. "Because you're master of the Elder Wand, which you won from Draco Malfoy. Accordingly, you also won Malfoy's hawthorn wand and became its master. So unless you're planning on giving Draco Malfoy your holly wand which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever I can only assume you're considering doing something with one of the other two "

"Hermione "

" and I know Draco Malfoy's on license with you." She held up a hand. "I know you aren't able to tell me anything confidential, and frankly I'm not asking. But I can imagine the amount of whinging he's doing over his lost wand, and it's unthinkable that you'd consider gifting the Elder Wand to anyone. Am I right? Of course I'm right. So, Harry, you can't risk Malfoy becoming master of the Elder Wand again. Could you even imagine?" Hermione rolled her eyes. "It would be the Apocalypse."

"The Apocalypse? You're not even religious!"

"The day Malfoy masters the Elder Wand again is the day I convert!"

Harry snorted. "Aren't you being just slightly hysterical?"

She raised a brow. "And aren't you being slightly misogynistic? You do know the origin of the word 'hysterical' comes from the Greek "

"Oh, for God's sake "

"Anyway, please don't call me hysterical when we both know this is about you and not me."

Harry shook his head. He so should not have asked. "I've got no plans to give Draco Malfoy anything, much less a wand."

"Then why would you ask?"

It wasn't confidential information. "Because he bothers me about it, yeah. Guess I was just wondering."

Hermione looked curious, despite her prior protestations. "So . . . Malfoy?"

"Yeah?"

"How's it going with him?" She brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I still can't believe what he did. Of all people . . . so ironic . . . "

"He's a ginormous pain in the arse."

"Unsurprising."

Harry shrugged. "Eh, he's just another cat to herd."

"This is Malfoy we're talking about. That can't possibly be true."

Harry found that he didn't want to meet her eyes, and he was entirely unsure as to why. He felt suddenly funny, strange. Truth told, he thought about Malfoy's case a lot. A lot. More than his others, that was for certain. Malfoy epitomised the antithesis of what Harry usually dealt with.

"He's . . . I'm not sure 'making progress' is the right way to put it."

"But you haven't sent him back," Hermione noted.

"No." Harry dropped his hands into his lap. "No. I haven't."

"Why not?" Hermione's chin rose a notch; she looked very prim. "What he did is inexcusable."

"I know."

"Then why keep him in the programme?"

"Dunno." His glasses were smudged; he pulled them off. "What's that new cleaning charm again?"

She pulled her wand. "Fulgeo." Harry's glasses shined. "You're trying to change the subject."

"No, I'm not. I genuinely couldn't see "

"You're feeling heroic again, aren't you?"

"What?"

"You know exactly what I mean," Hermione said briskly. "You're brave, you're smart, you're a brilliant wizard . . . and you like saving people. Especially from themselves." She nodded, firm.

"That's not true," Harry objected. "Necessarily."

"It is true. I mean, look at W.H.O.M.P. It's all about saving people from their own demons. It's all about exorcising the dark for you."

Harry said nothing, merely looked at her. No one else would ever get away with speaking to him like this not even Ron or Ginny.

"There's nothing wrong with wanting to help people, Harry. You do it brilliantly. Just don't get emotionally attached."

"I wouldn't so much call it 'emotionally attached' as I would say 'personally invested'."

"You're splitting hairs." But her wide brown eyes were warm and understanding. "I remember, too, you know."

"Remember what?"

"That Malfoy didn't hand us over all those years ago. Not even me." She paused. "Not even me."

"Yeah." Harry looked at her. "I was thinking about that a while back."

"Okay. And?"

"If they had found out what Malfoy'd done, they Well, at least I think Do you know what they would've done to him?"

"They would have killed him, obviously."

"Yes, I think so."

Hermione looked as if she were trying to hold back something she desperately wanted to say.

"What is it?"

"You know, the Elder Wand . . ." she began. She shook her head and put her chin on the ball of her hand.

"Yeah?" Harry prompted her, when she didn't continue.

"Well, of course after everything that happened, I wanted to learn as much about the Elder Wand and wandlore as possible "

"Ollivander said wandlore is complex."

"It is. Very. Here's the thing about the Elder Wand. Harry, the core of the Elder Wand is a Thestral tail hair."

Harry stared at her. "So?"

"A Thestral core's quite tricky. Only a witch or wizard capable of facing death can master a wand with a Thestral core. That's why You-Know-Who "

" Voldemort, Hermione. Voldemort "

" That's why You-Know-Who could have never mastered the wand, no matter how many times he defeated its master. You-Know-Who was incapable of facing death."

"Okay?"

"I guess it just means Malfoy was able to face death." She shrugged. "For he mastered the Elder Wand."

"Everyone dies," Harry said. "We all have to face death."

"Yes, but some face it better than others. It just seems interesting, is all."

"Are you saying that Malfoy is was brave?"

"I don't know him well enough to say. You know as much as I do Malfoy was all over the place doing whatever it took to save his own skin. But there was that one time . . ."

". . . when he saved us."

"Yes."

Harry felt hot, as if he were wearing wool at the height of August. "So this means. . . ?"

"It means Malfoy's capable of mastering the Elder Wand. Harry, you can't give him the hawthorn wand. It's too big a risk.

"I . . . wasn't seriously considering it."

"If you weren't, you wouldn't have asked."

Hermione knew him so well. He sighed. "I can't think of any incentives for him. He has money, so he doesn't need vouchers for anything. His family's intact and there's no restrictions on him seeing his child. I can't use visitation. He has a job, a stable residence, a functional family "

"You're seriously categorising the Malfoys as 'functional'?"

Harry held up his hands. "Technically? Yeah."

"He's paid his restitution?"

"First day out of Azkaban."

"And he's not using potions or substances?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Right," Hermione said. "Confidential. I'd guess not, though, or else he'd be back in prison."

Harry shifted noncommittally. "I can't say. But you are a very bright witch."

"What exactly is he not doing?"

Harry thought about this, trying to exact a way to continue the conversation with Hermione without breaching confidentiality. He decided that Malfoy's personality was not protected information. Everyone knew what a prat Malfoy was. "It's like he has no emotional connection with his crime, like he's completely isolated and tucked away what happened somewhere inside his mind. The crime itself is public record," Harry noted, "so it's not like everyone doesn't already know what he did. But he won't acknowledge it."

"You once said that Malfoy was skilled at Occlumency "

"I'm no Legilimens anyway, so that route's out." Harry laughed at the thought. "But, yeah. Apparently he is."

"Someone skilled at Occlumency would be good at locking down specific parts of their psyche and storing them away, deep down in the subconscious." Hermione was amused. "And, no, I don't suggest you attempt Legilimency on Malfoy."

Harry hadn't thought of the subconscious angle. "You think he doesn't remember what happened? Honestly?"

"Oh, I doubt even he could bury such a terrible crime. But I'd bet that while he was in Azkaban, he either was consumed by the thoughts of it, or he pushed them away for the sake of his own sanity. Think about it, Harry. Think of who the victim is. There's no way he'd have forgotten."

"I reckon, yeah."

"He's in victim reparation." Hermione stated this as fact. And while Malfoy's or any other offender's W.H.O.M.P. file was highly protected by confidentiality laws, an offender's sentence and conditions of license were a matter of public record as well. Anyone could look the information up.

"Yeah."

"Apparently it's not going well?"

"Like I said, you're a bright witch."

"You're superb at what you do, Harry," Hermione said. "But let me guess. You've pulled out all the stoppers and nothing's working? All your usual tricks to draw out your offenders don't affect Malfoy, because he's not what you typically deal with. What you need to do is be creative. Think outside the box. Pull that story out of him."

"But how? I've been banging my head against the wall for months. You should see him in victim reparation he's disruptive, rude, arrogant. . . he thinks he's 'special', that he's somehow morally superior to the other offenders, and for Merlin's sake he's the only person on W.H.O.M.P. right now for a homicide case!" Harry rubbed his temples. "Nothing works."

"It's simple. Either he goes back to Azkaban or you break him."

"Think outside the box," Harry mused, the wheels and cogs inside his head giving a shudder and groan. He had to admit, when it came to the offenders he worked with, he did have a basic pattern of supervision.

"That's right. Do whatever it takes."

"Whatever it takes."

"Whatever it takes, Harry."

MONTH TEN

Confessions

Draco opened the front door; the wood groaned and echoed in the foyer. He stared.

Harry Potter stood on the front steps, holding two brooms.

"You were just here," Draco said, "not two weeks ago. What the hell do you want now?"

"Pick a broom."

"What?"

"Pick a broom."

"Are you mad? Go fuck yourself."

"Malfoy? Pick a goddamned broom."

"Why?"

"You'll see."

He stared down his nose at Potter. "What kind are they?"

"Quasar Special Edition and a Penumbra 5000." Potter held the brooms towards Draco, holding them easily with one hand. "The Quasar's got better speed, but it's sometimes hard to control on turns. The Penumbra's fast, but not as fast as the Quasar. It's a smoother ride."

"I expect I can handle either. Are these your brooms?"

"One is. I borrowed the other."

"Which one's borrowed?"

"Choose one and I'll tell you."

Draco hesitated, looking at both brooms. They were equally sleek and good-looking, with well-trimmed sticks, shining stirrups, and polished wood. One had a black handle, the other what looked to be walnut.

He liked black.

"That one," Draco said, pointing to the black broom. "You'll forgive me that I'm not up-to-date on the new brooms. Having been denied reading material for over four years, and all that."

Potter pushed the black broom towards Draco. "Here." He waited until Draco took it from him. "That's the one I borrowed. The Penumbra 5000. You know what a penumbra is, right?"

"Yes, I know," Draco said witheringly. "I'm sure I did better in Astronomy than you did."

"Maybe. Dunno."

"A penumbra," he said, feeling compelled to validate himself, "is the area of partial illumination surrounding the darkest part of a shadow caused by an eclipse."

"Yup." Potter tilted his head a notch. "Rather fitting for you."

"What?"

"I'd say you've experienced a bit of an eclipse, yeah? A shadow blocked out your sun big time. Oh, and a quasar is an unusually bright object found in the remote areas of the universe. Quasars release incredible amounts of energy and are among the oldest and farthest objects in the known universe. They may be the nuclei of ancient, active galaxies. Just for the record."

"I thought you said I did better than you in Astronomy?"

"I said maybe you did."

"Clever."

"Where's your pitch?"

"Why?"

"Because we're going to play Quidditch."

"Potter, I haven't been on a broom in "

"It's like riding a bicycle "

"I've never touched a Muggle bicycle, you prat! As if?"

"The point about the bicycle is once you learn how to ride one, you never forget the feel. Flying's the same."

He was loathe to admit it. "I . . . haven't flown in a long time."

"Where's your pitch?"

"You can't make me!"

"What are you, three? Where's your bloody pitch?"

"What if we don't have a pitch, Potter. Ever think of that?"

"You don't have a pitch?"

"Of course we have a pitch! What'd'you take us for?"

"Malfoy, let's go."

"Let me understand this. You want to play Quidditch. With me."

"Yup."

"Why?"

"Show me where the pitch is."

Draco stepped out from the front door, holding the Penumbra 5000. He felt wary, as if he were being tricked. Potter was up to something, clearly. Yet . . . he was intrigued. A warm, daring sensation filled his belly and he met Potter's gaze. "It's around back."

They crunched along, rounding the perimeter of the manor and trekking down a gravel path. A flock of alabaster peacocks crossed in front of them, nattering away. They sped behind a hedge, their white crowns bobbing along the trimmed leaves. The cries grew fainter.

"Peacocks?" Potter asked, and Draco could tell Potter was trying not to laugh. "Really?"

"Shut up." Draco shoved his hand in his pocket and swung the broom up over his opposite shoulder, carrying it like a beater's bat. "The pitch is this way."

Not that he'd admit it, but Potter had been right about flying. It came as naturally as walking, breathing. Once they had reached the pitch they'd mounted their brooms and shot into the sky together, pale and dark streaks against the endless grey clouds. They had no protective gear, but somehow that made Draco feel bold and reckless in a sanctioned way, for it was Potter who'd shown up on his doorstep with brooms and no pads. For now, for however long it lasted, he was allowed to cut loose without open defiance.

Not that Draco'd ever minded defiance.

Potter had a worn and tarnished Golden Snitch. He held Draco's gaze for a moment and then wound up and threw the Snitch as far as he could and Draco took off immediately, following the golden blur as it buzzed away in a perfect arc. The Snitch hurtled towards the ground and Draco panicked. Potter was right on his tail and Draco hadn't done a Wronski Feint in likely ten years. He closed his eyes and flattened himself against the broom's handle and dipped down, flying blindly. He opened his eyes; the lush green grass was coming up to meet him and the Snitch was hovering mere inches from the ground. And then Potter's outstretched arm sailed into his periphery; Potter was speeding up and Draco remembered his words: The Quasar's got better speed, but is sometimes hard to control on turns. The Penumbra's fast, but not as fast as the Quasar . . . He'd unknowingly chosen the Penumbra, but a fierce competitive swell rose within him and he let the adrenaline wash through him as he concentrated on the Snitch, the grass, and the knowledge that he was on an unfamiliar broom.

Potter's hand disappeared behind him and Draco reached out with his own. The Snitch was still in a holding pattern just above the grass. The air rushed through his hair and filled his ears, like the distance ocean roar of a seashell; the pitch was so green. The Snitch zigzagged and shot straight upwards, and Draco pulled back on instinct, bringing the handle up.

The grass brushed his fingers where they were curled around the handle as Draco arced up and away from the ground, Potter right behind him, and it occurred to him that they had just pulled off a double Wronski Feint, and for that Draco had to extend Potter the tiniest modicum of respect. He didn't have to respect anything else about Potter, but he'd always known Potter was a superb Seeker.

As he realised he was one half of the double Wronski Feint, he wondered what that made him. Superb as well?

Why not?

The Snitch popped up right in front of him and Draco strained forwards and nicked it right up.

"I let you win."

Draco turned and came to a stop, floating. With a smirk he tossed the Snitch at Potter. "Bullshit."

"So," Potter said, an hour-and-a-half later, "I suppose you're wondering why I'm here today."

Neither had spoken since Potter'd defended his loss. They were now tied at five and five.

"I was actually going to lodge a complaint that you're playing Quidditch on my Knut," Draco said, leaning back, his feet solidly planted against the broom's stirrups. "You being a civil servant and all, and me being a taxpayer "

"Yeah, we've established this. Multiple times."

"I'm just reiterating." His eyes were flat. "What do you want?"

"This is your W.H.O.M.P. appointment, Malfoy."

"What? Now I have to see you four times a week?" Outrageous!

"No," Potter said. "You won't have to come in tomorrow. But you'll still have to come in on Friday."

"My appointment was to play Quidditch? What about all your other offenders?" Draco asked, air-quoting.

"I have an apprentice Auror. He's handling my office hours today."

"You're letting an amateur muck about in your work?"

"I trust Teddy. He's excellent. I hand-picked him from the burglary unit. I've known him all his life."

"Well, I don't want him looking through my file. Only you're allowed to."

"Sorry. You don't get to make that call."

"Brilliant."

"We're tied, five-five." Potter tossed the Snitch up into the air and snapped it back, overhanded. "We'll go one more time. After we do your appointment."

"Fine. Get on with it."

"All right. Start flying. Slowly."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

"What if I don't want to?"

"Then come into my office tomorrow."

"Yeah. No thanks."

Potter gestured. "Go on, then."

Draco rolled his eyes and leaned forwards and shot into the sky, going as fast as the Penumbra would take him. He heard Potter's distant voice.

"I said slowly . . ."

Harry sped after Malfoy, who of course couldn't take his simple direction to fly slowly. The Quasar caught up with Malfoy within seconds, and Harry tailed him, purposefully staying behind Malfoy, just out of his range of sight. After several minutes it was clear that for now Malfoy planned on flying laps around the pitch. Harry followed his lead. Malfoy handled the Penumbra expertly, despite that particular broom's propensity to stick on turns. Flying, Harry knew, was instinctive, and Malfoy was a natural. He always had been; Harry remembered the day of their first flying lesson at Hogwarts, and despite Malfoy being a complete and utter arsehole, even at eleven, Harry had recognised Malfoy's natural skill and grace on a broom. It had hacked him off, because he always wanted to believe the worst of Malfoy. But, yeah, he had had to admit it. Malfoy had always flown well.

Harry believed, though, on what he would naturally interpret as being a pragmatic level, that he was better.

He was close enough to Malfoy that the twigs on Malfoy's broom brushed against the handle of his own. They flew in even precision around the pitch, the chilled air rushing streamlined down the backs of their robes, billowing them out so that the corner of Malfoy's snapped Harry in the face; Malfoy looked back and laughed.

"Yes, very funny." His cheek stung. "Watch where you're going! You nearly brained us!" They'd missed the centre goal by inches and Harry felt the end of his broom scrap against its metal hoop.

"Well?" Malfoy said, looking ahead. They swooped lower. "What do you want?"

"Who's your favourite team?"

"Harriers."

"Heidelberg?"

"That's what I said."

Harry hadn't imagined Malfoy would like a non-British team. "Why?"

"Fiercer than a dragon and twice as clever."

"Says who?"

"Darren O'Hare."

"O'Hare of the Irish?"

"That would be him."

"Puddlemere United here."

"Figures."

"Yeah, well." Harry dipped under Malfoy and came up on the other side of him. "How's work?"

"I haven't been sacked have I?"

"That's not exactly a ringing endorsement."

"It's an acceptable diversion," Malfoy said, the wind slicking his hair back from his face. He threw a scant glance at Harry.

"So it's an 'acceptable diversion'? From what?"

"My former life of leisure."

"Bollocks," Harry said, bumping up against Malfoy until their thighs touched. Everything was rushing by, blurs of brown earth and verdant forest, and dabs of colour here and there from late-blooming flowers and enchanted topiary. "You had a job, Malfoy. Before."

Malfoy sped up; he took a sharp left and careened into the forest bordering the pitch. Harry was flying on instinct and instantly he was at Malfoy's side again, navigating the outstretched branches and tangled bramble. For the second time his cheek stung, as a young branch from an oak whipped at him. "Tell me about your former job, Malfoy."

"It wasn't a job. It was a profession."

"All right." Harry had to call out by this point, they were flying so fast, ducking down and curving around the thick trunks hurtling towards them. "Your profession. Tell me what you did."

Malfoy's words swirled past Harry's ears. "Read my report, Potter."

"Do you remember our conversation about answering questions honestly and directly?"

"Do you remember our conversation when I told you to go fu "

"Malfoy."

Malfoy sped up again; Harry tailed him easily, but was careful to stay just far enough behind that Malfoy wouldn't have to look at him.

"Magical artefacts," he said at last.

"Good."

"I dealt in magical artefacts. But I'm sure you already knew that."

"I did," Harry confirmed. And then the urge to bury his hands in Malfoy's robes, to grab fistfuls of fine wool rose unbidden. He wanted to shake Malfoy to the core. What the hell? As quickly as the impulse came it was replaced by a mixture of trepidation and . . . excitement. It was so jarring, Harry lost concentration for a micro-second; however, that was all it took. The handle of his broom dipped a fraction of an inch and caught on a thick, rough branch of pine, and Harry's broom went twigs-up. As the broom flipped forwards, Harry flailed through the air, reaching for anything to grab onto, and he reflexively seized the back of Malfoy's Penumbra "Shiiiiit "

"Potter!"

But Harry could only hear Malfoy, he couldn't see him. It took them a long fifteen seconds to fall the fifty feet to the ground, as they bounced and skidded their way down the maze of snapping branches and twigs, the smallest shoots whipping at every inch of exposed skin, tearing at their clothes, the sharp deciduous needles poking and scraping painfully.

Harry saw the Penumbra 5000 had fallen and come to rest horizontally, held in place by two splayed branches. Its twigs were maimed, but the handle was intact. Malfoy was frantic, pawing at the branches and air as they fell, and he had unleashed a slew of profanities so epic it was almost lyrical.

"Do not touch that broom!" Malfoy spat the words out. "That's my broom!"

"Sod that!"

Harry and Malfoy were caught by the broom, like socks thrown over a clothesline, mashed together, their fingers scrabbling for a firm grip. The momentum of the sudden stop knocked the wind from Harry's lungs, and he heard Malfoy groan next to him.

It was very still and quiet.

"Potter, you idiotic piece of "

"Don't move!"

"Bloody well right I'm moving! Before I end up brained on the forest floor "

There was a sharp crack. Harry and Malfoy lurched downwards.

Harry looked at Malfoy, who was staring right at him.

"I really, really hate you, you know."

"Malfoy "

The handle of the Penumbra gave. Snapping in two, its halves caught up in the tree branches and Harry and Malfoy plummeted the remaining ten feet towards the ground. Malfoy looked like he was trying to run; he hit the ground, rolling, coming to rest on his back, arms outstretched, legs spread-eagled. And the strange thought that Malfoy looked like he were trying to make a snow angel flashed in Harry's mind as he smacked down right on top of Malfoy, like a magnet to metal. Their torsos melded; Harry's elbows scraped into the forest floor at Malfoy's shoulders; their faces bopped together at full speed, and Harry felt the sudden pain of his bottom lip splitting open as it ground against Malfoy's mouth and their teeth knocked together. He tasted blood immediately.

Harry dug in his elbows and lifted his head; Malfoy was looking up at him, his mouth gaping, and Harry realised Malfoy couldn't breathe. To boot, patters of his blood had fallen onto Malfoy's chin; several rolled down Malfoy's neck and bled into the fabric of his robes, spreading like spilt ink on parchment.

"Malfoy?" Harry could barely speak. He felt like his guts had been first scrambled, then pounded into a gelatinous, meaty pulp. Every inch of him was beginning to throb. "Holy shit . . ."

Malfoy let out a tremendous cough, blasting Harry in the face, and then he was thrashing underneath Harry like a sack of eels, striking out. "GET OFF! GET OFF OF ME!" He was shoving at Harry's chest and Harry couldn't rise fast enough. Stumbling backwards, Harry snagged the back of his foot against a log and fell flat on his arse, his legs tangled over the dead trunk. Malfoy was on his side, coughing violently and clutching at his stomach with his left hand. His eyes flew over to Harry.

"What the right royal hell was that for?" Malfoy wheezed out, in between fits of hacking.

Harry groaned, trying to figure out the best way to disentangle himself from the fallen tree. He finally arced up with his arms and crab-walked forwards, until the rough, mossy bark was at his shoulders. He sat down, breathing heavily. As usual, his lenses were cracked; pine needles erupted from his crazy black hair like a pincushion; his robes and uniform were covered in leaves, mud, lichen, and acorn caps. He pulled his wand, wincing as he tilted sideways. He tapped his glasses and once again the lenses were smooth and clear. He shoved them back onto his face and rose onto his knees, looking for Malfoy.

"Oh, God!" Malfoy was whinging on the ground, still on his side. "I've been killed! Killed!"

It even hurt to roll his eyes. "For sod's sake, Malfoy," Harry said, moving closer. "You're not dead!"

"I've died! Surely I've died!"

"I'm serious. Get the hell up, right now."

"I can't. . ." Malfoy rolled onto his back again. He looked like a beached starfish. "I'm dead. . ."

"You are not dead, for the love of Merlin's beard! Sit up!"

Malfoy pushed himself up into a sitting position, moaning. He brought the back of his hand to his mouth and touched it to his lips, looking. "Oh my God!" He began wiping at his face. "I'm bleeding. . ." He swiped again and again, until he looked like Scorpius might have used his face as a canvas for an exceptionally awful round of finger-painting. "Is that better?"

"No," Harry said, agog. "You look like "

"Like what?"

Harry was shaking out his robes. "Like I dunno! You look like. . . you. . . or something!"

"Well, you look like crap."

Harry started to retort, but just then the two halves of the Penumbra fell from the tree. One splintered part landed next to Malfoy; the other, split into an uneven, nasty point, hit him right on top of the head, bounced, and fell behind him. A scarlet stain bubbled up in Malfoy's fair hair, a vibrant crimson splash against his pale features. Malfoy flung his arms over the top of his head, shielding himself too late, and curled into himself like a shrimp. "FUCK ME! I'VE BEEN KILLED AGAIN!"

For the first time as an Auror, Harry hadn't the foggiest idea as to what to do. They had not covered Slytherin drama queens in training. He both wanted to laugh and to beat Malfoy silly with the broken broomstick. He mustered a commanding tone. "I'm directing you to stand. Now."

Malfoy had a single rivulet of blood easing down the side of his face. "If I weren't dead. . ."

"YOU ARE NOT DEAD." Harry was pissed off now. His lip was bleeding copiously and it felt as if it were swollen to five times its usual size. "I'm bleeding too and I'm not dead. Get up."

Malfoy was fingering his face, touching the smears of blood, feeling here and there. "Why is my mouth bleeding? I can't find it "

"Your mouth isn't bleeding. It's mine "

"You bled on me? You bled on me?" Malfoy had apparently forgotten he'd died, for he was on his feet, shaking his hands and spitting on the ground repeatedly. "I'm going to vomit. . ."

"Me too," Harry said dryly, holding a cleanish corner of his robes to his lip. The bleeding hadn't stemmed and he realised both his knees really ached. He looked down; there were tears in the legs of his trousers. He pointed his wand. "Accio Quasar!" Within seconds a whooshing sounded and Harry looked to his left. The Quasar was hurtling towards him; it reared and came to a stop and Harry grabbed it up by the handle, inspecting it. Deep scratches marred the once-smooth surface of the handle and a portion of the twigs had broken away. He sighed. It was only two months old. Never mind the Penumbra he'd borrowed from Ron. It occurred to him that 'thinking outside of the box' was rather expensive. "Ron'll kill me."

"Ron. . . you mean Weasley? You put me on Weasley's broom?"

"Hold on. Relax "

"So not only am I covered in your spectacular magical half-blood, I've also rubbed my bollocks on a Weasley broom?" Malfoy stalked forwards to Harry; he poked him in the chest. "You know what, Potter? I'm owling my solicitor "

"I thought you sacked your solicitor."

"That's beside the point! I'm owling a solicitor and I'll be lodging a formal complaint against you and W.H.O.M.P. I've been maimed. Injured. Humiliated. Forced to ride a contaminated broom "

Harry's hand whipped up and he caught Malfoy around the wrist; his fingers were throbbing from the fall and Malfoy's skin felt cool under his touch. "You will stop it," he said. "Or I will place you in custody. You have five seconds."

" when I'm through with you, I will own the bloody Ministry of Magic "

"Five."

" I'd bet you don't force any of your other 'offenders' to play Quidditch in foul weather wearing nothing more than business-casual robes "

"Four."

" you are liable for my injuries! I have been injured under your watch "

"Three."

" there was nothing in my conditions of license that said I had to spend quality time with you "

"Two." Harry pulled his wand and let go of Malfoy, sending him stumbling back a step. He trained his wand on Malfoy, who sneered.

"Right. You're going to put me in custody. I've done nothing wrong, just what you've ordered me to do "

"I've ordered you to shut the bloody hell up." Harry flicked his wand. "Incarcerous."

Malfoy was scooped into the air, bowed. His hands flew behind his back as restraints shot from the end of Harry's wand and immobilised him at the wrists, while a second set of magical ropes flashed over to Malfoy's feet, binding them tightly. Harry flicked again and a glowing length of golden chain burst forth and wove itself through Malfoy's hands and feet, and cinched. Malfoy was drawn practically into the shape of a 'C' and Harry was quite sure if he ran a fingernail down Malfoy's centre, Malfoy's guts would splatter onto the forest floor, he was that tightly restrained.

"Guh "

"Shut it."

Malfoy gurgled, his face turning the colour of a beetroot. "Can't breathe "

"Feel good?"

"Down "

"You want me to let you down?"

Malfoy made a choking noise and struggled weakly against his restraints; it wasn't Malfoy's fault that he couldn't muster more strength, Harry noted. Malfoy was almost immobilised by his position. "Potter. . ." It was almost a gasp.

"I'll let you down, sure. But let's be clear. One? You are not dead. You have not died. You have not been killed. Two? Feel free to call a solicitor. Three? When I give you direction, take it. Four, if you continue to bitch like a girl about all this, I'll assign you community work involving a Muggle shovel, a Nogtail farm, and an albino bloodhound."

"'Kay, okay!" Malfoy looked like his face might explode.

"Turn your head sideways," Harry ordered. "I said turn your head sideways." Malfoy complied and Harry directed him downwards, just until the very centre of Malfoy's belly touched the earth. "Keep looking at me . . . Relashio."

The golden chain snapped and Malfoy's hands and feet were released. He flumped to the forest floor, writhing against the remaining restraints. "Oof!" Malfoy's hands and feet smacked the ground; he got onto his knees, inhaling with great gasping breaths. He looked up at Harry. "You " He was overcome by coughing; a single string of saliva pooled in the dirt. "You are so sacked . . ."

"I won't be sacked."

"When I'm finished with you "

"I'll be sitting on my side of my desk and you'll be sitting right across from me."

Malfoy was on his feet holding his sides. "You have a supervisor. Surely you have a supervisor. I'm owling him straightaway "

"Go ahead."

"What'd'you mean 'go ahead'?"

"I mean just that."

Malfoy was in Harry's face. "You mean to tell me your supervisor will approve of you forcing me to play Quidditch, you killing me on my own property, and then and then what is it you even did to me?"

"It's called hobbling. And I'm authorised to use it as a corrective measure."

"You could have just told me to stop talking!"

"I did. I "

"You certainly didn't have to hobble me."

"I told you to "

"I don't know what rubbish you normally deal with, Potter, but I'm above it. I don't need to be physically restrained for you to get my attention."

"That's brilliant." Harry attempted to deflect Malfoy's diatribe. "Then let me ask you "

"Oh no! You're not asking me a bloody thing. I'm done answering questions." Harry flinched as a speck of Malfoy's saliva hit his cheek; Malfoy turned on his heel and stalked off into the underbrush.

"Where're you going?" Harry called out.

"None of your business! Find your own way back."

"Malfoy, do you know this forest? What if there are creatures?"

Malfoy's voice was becoming fainter. "This is my goddamned property. Of course I know " Harry heard a loud crashing sound and then a scream that would rival his Lily Luna at the height of a most excellent tantrum. "GOD "

"Malfoy?" Harry took a tentative step towards the bramble. "All right?"

It sounded as if Malfoy were wrestling a mountain troll. Harry heard twigs snap, branches break, and the shuffling sound of rustling leaves. Malfoy seemed to be trying to call out, but his voice was garbled.

"Malfoy, answer me, or I'm coming after you." Harry pulled his wand, dropping the two halves of the Penumbra. "Malfoy!"

Again came the strangling sound; Malfoy managed to gasp out, "Nettles "

Nettles? Harry thought for a moment. "Wait . . . Nightshade Nettles?" Nightshade Nettles were potentially lethal, for they spun whatever they trapped into a cocoon of fiery, blistering thorns, and often suffocated their victim. Perhaps Malfoy had encountered regular forest nettles, the kind that caused minor itchiness. Maybe he was exaggerating

"Nightshade!" Malfoy croaked, as if his throat were being squeezed shut. "Potter "

"For eff's sake," Harry muttered; he crashed into the forest undergrowth.

"It actually isn't funny," Draco said, mortified. Potter had managed to bend him enough to seat him on a thick fallen tree; however, he was immobilised by rope after rope of the imprisoning Nightshade Nettles, and Potter was unraveling him, one strand of nettles at a time. Draco couldn't move his arms or spread his legs, or move around at all really, so he fumed on the sodding stupid log as Potter picked at him.

"Mmhmm." Potter was using large leaves to protect his fingers from the nettles, although, judging from Potter's breath, he wasn't doing a good job of it. "Christ, I thought you said you knew this forest."

"I do know it." Draco would have raised his chin if he weren't incapacitated in nettles, like a skein of yarn. His entire body felt on fire. "I know it's . . . my property. Therefore, I know "

"Let me guess," Potter said, undoing another string of nettles and tossing it towards a growing pile about five feet away. The nettles shifted and wove in on themselves, and Draco swore they were whispering. "You've never been out this way in your life."

"How would you know?"

"You don't seem outdoorsy."

"Are you calling me a poof?"

"No. I just don't think you're the outdoors type."

"That's entirely untrue. I play Quidditch."

"Quidditch's far more civilised than roughing it. I'll bet you've never gone out camping in your life."

"I have, actually," Draco said loftily. "I camped at the Quidditch World Cup. Plus, Greg and Theo and I once put up a tent in Theo's backyard and stayed in it for a week.

"What kind ow!" Draco could feel Potter shaking out his hand behind him. "What kind of tent?"

"Why, a five-star tent, of course. All the amenities."

"That's not camping."

"It was outside, behind Theodore's manor, on the lawn."

"Impressive."

"Oh, and I suppose you're some expert at camping?"

"I've roughed it a night or two," Potter said dryly. He continued flinging strings of nettles towards the pile. He finished unwrapping Draco's face and head; the nettles were like fine, stinging strands of silk, sticky to touch, and difficult to untangle. Draco squirmed against them.

"Can't you hurry?"

"Doing the best I can."

They fell into an uncomfortable silence, Potter picking at the cocoon of nettles, Draco captive, his skin itching and on fire. The air was cold and smelt vaguely of caramel from the pine sap. Occasionally, Potter's fingers would brush against Draco's neck or cheek as he worked at the nettles, and this made Draco's belly surge in a way it hadn't since, well, Azkaban.

Sex in Azkaban wasn't tender. It wasn't soft. It wasn't loving. It was visceral, animalistic, all grunting and rutting and biting and choking down the surplus come of the condemned, all the while the Dementors would hover, their rasping breaths hopeless echoes, having nothing to feed off of, for sex in Azkaban was bleak and grim and lonely.

Some prisoners claimed others as their own. Draco had never been claimed, but it wasn't for want of others trying. Draco's fellow Death Eater, Scabior, had been particularly persistent, and it wasn't until Draco threatened to bribe the warden to have Scabior given the Kiss that Scabior had let up. Yet he always watched Draco. Always. During any community time, Scabior's dark eyes were trained on Draco wherever he went in the yard.

Of course, Scabior was mad; he was also serving a life sentence for crimes against Muggleborns and murder. Draco had made it his practise to not interact with the lifers; they were far more predatory and possessive than those doing minutes and change, for they had nothing to lose. They were overly-solicitous and ingratiating, pretending to be best mates. Draco had quickly learnt that nothing came without a price in Azkaban. He had kept to himself; he had sought out no one; he had existed in his frozen haematite cell, watching the ever-present rivulets of water stain the rusty streaks of ore until they looked like swipes of blood covering his cell, scarlet and dark.

And the Dementors were always there, sucking the life from everything even remotely sentient. Nothing lived at Azkaban except vermin no plants, no fauna, no souls. Desperation was palpable; Draco could even smell it.

At first, at prisoner receiving, the temporary stop for anyone serving a sentence in Azkaban, Draco had begun to think that perhaps Azkaban had been misrepresented, that the horror stories had been exaggerated for the benefit of the public at large. He did not remember how he'd got there; he'd been given the Draught of Living Death, and the next thing he remembered was waking up on a plain, but clean, cot, dressed in prisoner garb, the number 24601 indelibly inked on his inner left wrist, just below the curving snake of his Dark Mark. He'd been covered in enormous, angry red hives (it was how Draco had discovered he was allergic to the Wiggenweld Potion) He'd had his first shitty meal, and then the endless questions, diagnostics, and intake processes had occupied the next three days. Draco had been searched fully four times, which left him raw and sore, and thinking the guard who'd conducted the searches had seemed far too enthusiastic in his duties. He'd had a full medical workup, a psychological evaluation, and aptitude testing. They had left him alone for the next five days, and while Draco saw only the guard who brought him his meals, he had had the unmistakable feeling that he was being watched.

He'd spent most of those days sleeping, for it was the only way to escape the terror eating away at his insides.

He hadn't imagined it would be so much worse, that his first eight days in custody was but the tip of the iceberg.

On day nine, they'd roused him from a deep sleep and ordered him to stand. He was given a set of cheap, flimsy robes to put over his prison jumpsuit (For warmth? They needn't have bothered), a tatty wool blanket, a pillow encased in some kind of waterproof material that crackled when he grasped it. He'd been hobbled at the feet, with the same glowing golden chains Potter'd just used on him, and was forced to shuffle between the two guards escorting him to his permanent cell. They'd stood on the lift and the doors had shut, closing off the gleaming, spacious area that was Receiving.

They'd gone up and up and up and up. And it had gotten colder and colder, until Draco's breath hung in the air, and when the doors had opened he was immediately hit by the smell. It reeked of dirt, of blood, of shit. The rattling breaths of the Dementors assailed his ears, and from everywhere men were calling out, calling for the guards to take them to hospital, to take a letter to be owled, to fix an overflowing toilet, for food, for blankets, for new slippers, for everything. Everywhere Draco had looked there were walls of towering black rock; he could see no ceiling and no stars. The universe had closed its eyes on him and he was utterly alone.

"No!" he'd said, the items he'd been carrying falling from his grasp. He'd stumbled backwards, anything to get away from this sucking black vortex of misery. "No please "

Draco never said 'please'.

"Pick up your things," one of the guards had said, thoroughly bored. He'd looked at his watch. "Pick them up, or they'll be confiscated."

It had been a nightmare; it had been unreal. Yet Draco had found himself stooping, in a terrified daze, and gathering up his items. The guards had frog-marched him down an unlit corridor and the other inmates erupted, cat-calling, whistling, propositioning, and spitting at him. Globs of saliva filled with Merlin-only-knew-what rolled down his black and white striped uniform, and then someone recognised him. He hadn't even known who it was.

"MALFOY!" a dark, growling voice had rasped. "Draco Malfoy. . ." The other inmates began shouting, chanting his name. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. . . And then a wall of Dementors had reared from the dark, seemingly endless corridor, and Draco had stopped, petrified.

"I can't "

"Go," the second guard had snapped. "Get your arse in gear. If I have to drag you like a little fucking bitch, it'll be no meals for three days. We don't have time for your nancy bullshit. Go. Now."

"No!"

"Go on."

"I can't " The Dementors had been all around him, circling like a pack of curious sharks, dipping so low that the hairs on the back of his neck had risen from the icy chill of their breath.

The guards had dragged him the rest of the way and had thrown him into his cell. As Draco had faceplanted, the echoing clang of the door locking shut seared itself into his memory. He'd never forgotten the desperation that first moment had wrought; he had had the thought I will kill myself. I will never survive this. He'd crawled frantically around the floor of his cell, searching, his fingers reaching through water and cockroaches and sewage, until he'd found a single shale of rock that had somehow been torn from a wall and discarded, and he'd put it to his wrist. . . A rat crept out from the corner.

Scorpius's face flashed, quick as lightning, and Draco had stopped.

He had sat back on his haunches, huddled on the stone floor, and went ahead and let a part of him die. He'd torn his soul, done the unthinkable, and that ragged, torn-off piece had flickered, and then it had been snuffed out into a mind-consuming dark. He knew he was but one grain of sand on the abandoned beach that was Azkaban; he would curry no favour here, and he certainly wasn't special.

But he was there for a reason.

To atone.

And so he'd taken the slice of rock and he'd crawled over to the closest wall and he'd scraped and carved at the stone there, until a crudely-written name rose from the ore. Just one name.

It was why he was there.

Harry was about a third of the way down Malfoy's torso, discarding strings of nettles, but Malfoy still wasn't able to move his arms or legs. He realised it had been twenty or so minutes since Malfoy had said anything, which was unusual. He stopped picking.

"All right?"

"What'd'you care?"

"Don't start that again."

Malfoy was silent.

"Something on your mind?"

"Just pick off the bloody nettles, Potter." Harry thought he saw Malfoy's shoulder twitch and he saw that although Malfoy was tall, he wasn't too thin. He had a solid set of shoulders on him. He went back to pulling off the nettles straightaway, diverting his gaze, but Malfoy spoke again. "Azkaban."

"What about it?"

"I'm thinking about it."

"Yeah?"

Malfoy nodded and let his chin fall to rest on his chest. "I. . ."

"Yeah?"

He raised his head and Harry thought Malfoy was gazing at the canopy of leaves above. "I'm going to tell you now. I'm going to tell you what happened."

Harry didn't miss a beat. He loosened a particularly stubborn vine and nodded. "All right."

"It was a Wednesday. And neither of us were supposed to work that day. But I got an urgent owl from Burke "

"Burke from Borgin and Burkes, right?"

"Yeah. I got an owl. Burke'd got a rather large collection of antiques and artefacts from the Crawford estate, but only a few were Dark Arts." Malfoy managed to shrug. "Burke and I go back a ways "

"I know," Harry said, remembering the summer before their second year and the Hand of Glory with a shudder. Never mind the bloody cabinet their sixth year, for Merlin's sake.

" so he thought well, he thought my partner and me " Malfoy seemed unable to say the name. "Burke thought we'd want a look-see at the items before he sold them to another dealer. So, yeah. It was a Wednesday, and we weren't even supposed to be working . . ."

Harry listened; Malfoy spilled. He forgot to collect dead leaves from the forest floor to pick at the nettles; he just used his bare fingers, which were red with myriad tiny cuts, and he'd begun to itch. But Harry wasn't about to break the spell. This was what he'd been waiting for, all these many months, what he'd been prying and pulling and coaxing from Malfoy since his release. Malfoy talked at the trees, never once looking back at Harry. He spoke in a monotone, not a trace of emotion weaving through the story as it unfurled. Harry found it strange and unnatural, almost as if Malfoy were reading from a script and not telling his own story.

It occurred to Harry that Malfoy, while not a victim, was irretrievably damaged.

"You did well." Harry could barely stand to compliment Malfoy, but it was the right thing to do.

"Leave off, all right?" Malfoy struggled against the Nightshade Nettles and finally freed his left arm. He ripped at the nettles, pushing them down his body until his right arm was loose. He looked as if he were aflame; every bit of exposed skin was covered in a raised, angry red rash. He had sprigs of nettles every which where, streaks of mud and blood on his face and in his hair. Malfoy's robes were torn and, Harry noticed for the first time, he was wearing one shoe.

"I'm just saying you did well," Harry said, trying to pretend Malfoy was any other offender. "That was a hard story to tell."

Malfoy looked at Harry with such abject hatred that Harry almost recoiled. Loathing and a seething anger burnt in Malfoy's eyes, along with what Harry recognised in all his condemned offenders: Malfoy's burden had lifted somewhat, but it was only one step on an infinite journey. Malfoy would never put it behind him, nor should he. The ghost tapping on Malfoy's head had every right to linger.

"It's time to look to the future," Harry said, meeting Malfoy's gaze, but Malfoy sniffed.

"Right."

"Why not?"

"I can't."

"You can."

"Fuck all, Potter," Malfoy said, standing still and tall, "don't you understand? That window's long stained."

"Oh my God! What happened?"

Every inch of him ached. Harry winced as he shrugged off his uniform robes (which might have to be replaced, judging from the number of tears and holes), and he let Ginny take them. He turned and her eyes widened.

"Rough day?" Ginny folded the robes over. "I'd kiss you, but. . ."

Harry smiled, causing his bottom lip to split open again. "Ah, Merlin, ow." He pressed the cuff of his sleeve to his mouth, soaking up the blood. "Right. I was 'thinking outside the box'. . ."

"I see." Ginny grinned at him impishly and cupped his cheek, skimming the pad of her thumb across a cut there. "That went well."

"Yeah. It was brilliant."

"Come on. Everyone's here and Ron's almost got supper ready."

"Ron's cooking?"

"I know," Ginny said, holding up a hand. "Don't say anything. We salvaged the chicken."

"Daddy!"

Harry oomphed as Lily plowed into him, wrapping her arms around his waist, hugging him tight. He reached down to her. "Come up," he said, hoisting her to his hip. Lily clung to him like a monkey. "How's my girl?"

"Good." She laid her head on his shoulder and popped her thumb into her mouth, hugging his neck with her other arm. "Why do you look funny?" she asked, around her thumb.

"I had a long day."

"Did you catch a baddie?"

Harry thought about this. "You know? I think I did. In a way."

Ginny's face furrowed. "Yeah?"

"I'll tell you about it later," Harry said, not unkindly, looking down at Lily, "because I hear Uncle Ron's making us a fantastic supper and I'm starving. Hungry?"

Lily nodded against him. "Mmhmm. Uncle Ron's making chips. And ice cream."

"Chips and chicken and ice cream? Wow." He carried her into the living room with a pre-emptive announcement. "Yeah, I know. I look like crap. But everything's sorted and I'm fine. Just need a quick shower and some healing charms."

"Nice," Teddy said, appraising Harry. He almost looked impressed. "Everything went as planned then?"

"Well," Harry hedged, "technically? Yeah. In a roundabout way."

"Can't wait to hear about it."

"I'll tell you tomorrow."

"Hey, Dad," Al called out. "Guess what?"

"What?"

"I got a letter!"

"Really? From who?"

"Wait for it," Ginny said, under her breath.

"Scorpius Malfoy."

"What?"

"Yeah, Scorpius. Remember him from the park? The one I can't be friends with?"

Harry nodded, gently lowering Lily to the ground. She hugged his leg and he put a swollen, red hand on top of her head, smoothing her beautiful hair. "I do remember."

"Scorpius Malfoy wants a play date. With Al," Ginny said.

Harry shook his head. "It can't happen."

"I know."

"Please?" Al asked, looking at Harry. "I promise we won't be friends. But he says he's got a Quidditch pitch. At his house."

"That he does," Harry said dryly.

"And he's got two racing brooms."

"I can see why you want to go."

"Yeah. Can I?"

"How about we talk after supper?"

Al's face fell. "You're going to say no."

Harry dragged himself across the room, hauling Lily along. He peeled her from his leg and took her hand, kneeling in front of his son. He looked Al in the eye. "You know why."

"So his dad's on license. You said W.H.O.M.P.'s about making good choices. So, Scorpius's dad, he's making good choices, right?"

It was a general question. "He's making some good choices."

"Then why can't I go?"

"Because it's against the rules of my work. I'm not allowed to associate with any of my W.H.O.M.P. well, with anyone on W.H.O.M.P. and that includes their families. And that also means you and Mum and James and Lily can't either."

Al looked confused. "Is Scorpius on W.H.O.M.P. too?"

Scorpius sure was. In a way. The sins of the father and all that. "No, of course not. He's just a boy. Like you."

"Then why's he getting punished when it's his dad that did something wrong?"

"It's unfair, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Al said, miffed, "just a little bit."

"I'm sorry, Al."

"So I have to tell him I can't come?"

"Yes." Harry sighed because, truth told, he thought Scorpius Malfoy was a bright little thing, inquisitive and clever, without the sneering, bullying demeanour of his father. "But tonight? I'll help you owl him back, all right?"

Al frowned. "I don't like your job."

"Sometimes I don't either."

"Why don't we have a Quidditch pitch?"

"Because we have a yard." Harry nodded firmly.

"Our yard sucks."

"I like our yard," Lily said. "It's pretty."

"Excellent." Ron emerged from the kitchen, breaking the tension. He wore oven gloves and Ginny's pink apron. "Supper's ready. I did a right number on the carrots, but they're not too burnt " He stopped short. "Harry. Bloody hell, mate. What happened to you?"

"All right, Ron?" Harry asked, not wanting to explain his appearance again. "Is that smoke coming from the kitchen?"

"Dunno. Maybe?" Ron shrugged. "I turned the oven off. Hungry?"

"Yeah."

Ron looked him up and down. "D'you want to take care of yourself first?"

Harry glanced down his front. He was filthy, bruised, bloodied, and covered in microscopic stray nettle spines. "Guess I should. Where's Hermione?"

Ron thumbed over his shoulder. "In the yard with Hugo and Rose. You've got fairies, you know."

"We do?" Harry asked Ginny, "Since when?"

Ginny held up her hands. "I didn't know either. Rose just found them, but they're only small cocoons."

"I'll get rid of them on Saturday."

"Lily'll help you, I'm sure."

"Say," Ron said, pulling the oven gloves off, "did you put my broom in your cupboard? Told Hugo I'd take him for a ride after supper. Thought I'd better check the twigs."

"Yeah," Harry said, looking downwards. He rubbed at the back of his neck and rocked onto the balls of his feet. "Right then. About that. . . ?"

MONTH TWELVE

Revelation and the Unforgivable

"Tell us why you're here."

Draco was doing his best not to sick up onto the floor of the drab room down from Potter's office, where the dreaded victim reparation lessons were held. Various Aurors, and sometimes special professionals, facilitated the lesson, depending on the week, but, oh no, tonight, the second to last lesson he would be allowed to attend before being recalled to the Wizengamot, was being led by Harry Potter himself. It figured.

"Malfoy," Potter'd said the week prior during one of their routine office visits, "You can't go any longer. You've got two lessons left and you're the only offender who hasn't taken responsibility for his crime."

"You think they're taking responsibility?" Draco had sneered, wanting to throw it in Potter's face. "You should hear what they say on cigarette breaks. They're feeding you a line of bullshit. They don't care and they're not sorry. They're just jumping through your bloody stupid hoops."

Potter hadn't been fazed. "Are you saying you're not sorry for your crime either?"

"No!" Draco'd been beyond frustrated, trying to make Potter understand. "I just don't get why I have to spill my guts in front of a bunch of strangers in order to properly demonstrate remorse. I get it. I committed a crime. Someone's dead. It was a mistake, but it happened, and here I am."

"If it's 'just a mistake' you shouldn't have any problem telling your story."

Draco had twisted his watch over and over, feeling tense and under attack. "Yeah? Well those cretins whose company I'm forced to endure for three hours a week are lying to you They're lying to you "

Potter then smacked his hand onto the top of his desk and the sharp crack, to his embarassment, had startled Draco. He'd stared at Potter, who was pointing at him.

"Stop focusing on anyone other than yourself. Those other offenders are bullshitting me? What's it to you? This " Potter had jabbed the top of Draco's file vigorously " is about you. About what you did, about why you're here. Those 'cretins' and whether or not they're honest? It's none of your concern."

"It is so my concern!" Draco'd felt the anger course through him. He was completely misunderstood. "Why should they "

"It doesn't matter, Malfoy. You are so busy focusing on everyone else that you're using it to deflect."

"Deflect?"

"Your own responsibility. You aren't serving anyone's sentence but your own. It's not your responsibility to deal with anyone else or worry whether they're bullshitting. It's mine. You're here to attend to your case."

He'd sat back, cross and resentful. "This? Is utter crap."

"What's utter crap is you sitting here, when someone's lost their life, complaining about how bad off you are." Potter's eyes had narrowed. "You know? I think I was right about you."

"Right about what?"

"About you being the wrong sort."

He'd leaned forwards as far as he could, stretching his arms across the top of Potter's desk until he could almost touch his file, and his lip had curled. "And we come full circle. Potter? I could give two shits."

"Oh, you give two shits all right."

"How's that? What, are you suddenly a master Legilimens? God knows you're the most miserable Occlumens on the planet "

"This is not about me."

And Draco'd had an epiphany. It bloomed in his mind. "Yeah," he'd said, "yeah, it is. It is about you. You're invested." Despite himself, it had given him a rush, a thrill. His subconscious manifested and he realised he'd been waiting for this revision since 1991, whether he'd wanted to admit it or not. It'd meant Potter had set him on equal ground, had elevated him, even after what he'd done. And while Draco had been quite sure Potter's main concern had been his own professional track record, he couldn't help but think perhaps there had been a part of Potter that wanted to see Draco succeed.

He had known several things straightaway. He'd known he would really have to tell his story, and the prospect had made him nauseous. He'd known he would have to tell his son what he'd done. He'd known he'd have to please Potter to complete his sentence. And because Potter had cracked the door a fraction, Draco's seized onto the ensuing light: He wanted to show Potter that he was wrong about Draco, that no matter what he'd done, Draco could be 'the right sort', which, Draco had told himself, didn't mean he'd have to be good in the conventional sense.

Perhaps, he'd thought, he could atone. . .

Which was why he was now sitting in a cramped room with seven rank men and Potter, twisting his watch and trying not to be sick.

"Tell us why you're here," Potter repeated. He was perched on the lone dilapidated desk in the corner, watching Draco keenly.

I made a mistake. "I committed a crime."

Cianan Mulciber Junior, who was on license for dealing in illegal potions and Muggle substances, snorted, rolling his eyes. "Big of you to finally admit it, Malfoy."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "I'd tell you your father says 'hello', but he was far too busy buggering other inmates to be arsed to send along a message."

Mulciber reddened and stood, fisting like a toddler. "You fucking prick You think you're so much better than everyone " He moved towards Draco, but Potter was right there.

"Sit down," Potter directed Mulciber, who obeyed after a moment of posturing. "We've talked about choosing to ignore verbal insults. Walking away doesn't make you weak." He looked at Draco. "Malfoy, be appropriate."

"He started it."

"It doesn't matter. Watch your conduct." Potter returned to the desk. "Tell us more."

"Look, I said it. I committed a crime. There. I've said it again. I admit it."

"It's a start," Potter said. "You've told me your story. It's time to share it with the rest of the group. Everyone else has disclosed the circumstances of their case to you."

Draco laughed. "Everyone? You haven't. Don't tell me there aren't skeletons in your closet, Potter."

"This isn't about me."

"Yeah." Erik Larsson shifted in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're deflecting." Larsson was a Swedish wizard who was stuck in the UK, on license with Teddy Lupin, following a four day bender that had culminated in Larsson breaking into someone's home, drinking a one-thousand Galleon bottle of wine plus a chocolate bar, vomiting on a priceless Nundu rug, and then stripping down starkers and crawling into the owner's bed to sleep it off. He was the only one in the group who hadn't served a term in Azkaban, but he was obligated to stay in the UK until he completed his eighteen month sentence. Larsson was the only person Draco had met who was paler than he; Larsson's hair was so blond it was practically translucent, and he looked to have no eyebrows, which gave him the overall appearance of a surprised, peaky ghost.

"Oh please. Spare me."

"Well, you are."

"Yeah, you are," Mulciber said, still red and angry. "What'd you do, Malfoy?"

"I'm sure you already know."

"I want to hear you say it out loud."

"Mulciber, this isn't about shaming. It's about disclosure. Malfoy?"

"This is such bullshit." Draco's heart was pounding and he wondered if he were having a coronary. Merlin only knew he'd been a tightly wound bundle of stress, of trauma, of loss, for years. Maybe this was it . . . maybe he'd die right then and there and topple onto the mouldy, worn carpet, his eyes unseeing and fixed on the ceiling.

"All right. I'm going to help you out by disclosing one thing about your case "

"No." Draco was vehement. He glanced at Potter sideways. "It's my story." He took great pause, leaning forwards to rest his elbows on his knees. He clasped his hands tightly together and stared at the floor. A full two minutes ticked by; the room was silent. "I killed someone."

It was like the building itself exhaled in relief.

"Who?" It was from a dark, hulking wizard who only spoke when asked a direct question. He was looking at Draco; Draco could feel it.

"My business partner."

"For money?"

"No. I have enough money."

"All your money didn't save you from Azkaban, though, did it?" This time it was Edward Entwhistle, and he was clearly relishing the thought of Draco's demise.

"No."

"Tell us what happened," Potter said, and Draco might have thought his tone. . . gentle. But he knew better.

"It happened at work."

"Okay," Potter prompted.

"And it was a Wednesday. Neither one of us were scheduled to be in the office that day, but I got an urgent owl . . . an opportunity . . . "

"What was your job?" Entwhistle asked.

"We dealt in magical artefacts. We'd buy them from all over the world we traveled a lot I've seen every continent." He had to brag a little bit.

"How'd you kill him?"

"I, uh. . ."

"Yeah. Were the stories in the Daily Prophet true?"

"It was a mistake," Draco said. His body was alternately flushing hot and cold, and black nothingness danced in his periphery. "A terrible mistake."

"What happened?"

It took him a minute. "Caractacus Burke from Borgin and Burkes owled me. They'd picked up the Crockford estate "

"Doris Crockford?" Mulciber asked. "Heard she had a lot of Dark stuff."

Draco shook his head. "She didn't. Not really. A few things, but every family has a few Dark artefacts." He wondered what Potter might have. "Anyway, Burke was giving us first go at it if we wanted it, so I owled I owled " His voice trailed off.

"The victim?" Potter prompted.

"Yeah." He fell silent.

"What's his name?" the quiet dark wizard asked; Draco had never learnt his identity.

"It was um it was " He took a deep breath. "Her name is was Pansy." Her name felt strange on his tongue, like he was saying it in slow motion. "Pansy Parkinson."

"Good," Potter said, nodding. "Go on."

"So it was a Wednesday and we weren't meant to work, but I owled her about the Crockford estate because it was such a big collection. Of course she was excited to come. She was . . . energetic. Constantly . . . moving, busy, you know? She had her hands in a million pies. She would be at work before me and she left after I did. Always."

"She sounds like she had a strong work ethic."

"Sod off, Potter," Draco said, swallowing hard. It was very hard to hold his emotions in check, despite his natural ability towards Occlumency. "You hated Pansy."

Potter shrugged. "She tried to turn me over to Voldemort."

"Whatever. She was seventeen. Pansy was spectacular."

"I guess I didn't know her."

"No, you fucking well didn't."

"Continue." Potter rolled his eyes.

"We decided to go. To Borgin and Burkes' warehouse. To see the Crockford estate."

"How'd you kill her?" Avery piped up. "Were the stories in the paper true?"

"Christ, you lot are a bunch of pathetic vultures," Draco snapped, utterly incensed. They didn't care about Pansy; they just wanted the titillating details of her death. And bloody hell if Draco didn't have to give them what they craved. Panic rose inside him and he looked at Potter, desperately seeking a reprieve from this hell. But Potter wasn't going to give an inch, Draco could tell. "We got to the warehouse at 10:45 that morning. Merlin, there was so much stuff. It would've taken us days to go through all of it, really, but Pansy wanted to get as many prime items as possible." He was clenching his hands so tightly that he thought his knuckles might split open. "She was. . . ambitious. She had impeccable taste she always wanted the best, the most unique things, for the business. She drove a hell of a bargain and could talk her way to the bottom line in less time than others would take to breathe. So, we started going through the stuff." He fell silent.

"And?" Larsson asked.

"We found, God " Draco shook his head " so many things. But we could afford it. We had the resources."

"Must be fucking nice," said Avery contemptuously.

"What?" Draco asked, fixing his gaze on Avery. "What'd'you want me to say? You want me to pretend I live hand-to-mouth like you lot? Because I don't, and neither did she."

"Merlin, you are so conceited," said Entwhistle, sounding resentful.

Draco didn't look up. "I'm not conceited " Well, okay, he probably was. " I'm just honest. That's my reality. Sorry if it bothers you."

"You don't have to brag."

Draco shrugged a shoulder towards Potter. "He's making me do this. Don't like the way I'm telling it? Leave, then. I don't care."

"Go on," Potter said.

"There was enchanted jewellery," Draco said, again after a long moment. "Enchanted with spells that made the wearer lucky or more attractive to others those are really rare spells. Only Felix Felicis or Amortentia can bring on luck or attraction, aside from the spells used on these pieces. Yeah, they were very rare. There was a massive collection of African art. There was an Invisibility Cloak, although it was slightly opaque. Still quite valuable, though."

"Instead of listing all the shit you bought," Mulciber said, "how about owning up to what you did?"

"Because the items are important. They're . . . important to the story. To what happened. There were self-brewing tea sets, Erumpent horns, a live Golden Snidget in a gold cage, collectible antique brooms, a magic mirror that told secrets about whoever you asked after, and . . . " He trailed off, and suddenly there was an enormous lump in his throat and his eyes stung and he wanted to die of embarrassment.

"There was what?" Potter asked.

"There was a collection of, you know . . . non-magical items."

"Non-magical?" the dark wizard asked. "You mean Muggle stuff?"

Draco nodded, not speaking.

"Then what happened?"

"We thought it wasn't just me! Pansy thought the items were strange, too. There were pictures that didn't move; there were gadgets that I don't even know what they were; there were clocks that didn't talk, books that didn't scream or chat with you; there were . . . "

"There were what, Malfoy?"

The longest silence so far ensued. "Weapons."

"Weapons? Like what kind of weapons?"

Draco's head twitched sideways, almost like a tic. "Knives. Foils. Things I didn't know. But there was this one thing. . ."

"Tell us about it," Potter said.

"It was. . . a metal tube. It had a handle and it fit perfectly in the palm of my hand. And a thing you pull to make. . . I forget what it's even called. . . but it throws little pieces of metal that project into peoples' bodies." He didn't know quite how to explain it, for he'd only seen it the one time. Just the one time.

"You're talking about a Muggle gun." Potter stated.

Draco nodded, dropping his gaze. "Yes."

"Had you ever seen a Muggle gun before?"

"No. Never."

"Did you know what a gun does?"

"No. It was so. . . ugly. And cumbersome. A stupid, impractical weapon, really, compared to the wand."

"What do you remember about the gun?"

"It was silver metal, like I said. And heavy."

"Go on."

"Burke. . ." Draco couldn't say it. He could not. But there was Potter, urging him on. "Burke told me. . ."

"Yes?"

"You know what he told me."

"No one else here does, though."

"Do I really have to give all the details? I killed Pansy. Isn't that enough?"

"No, it's not enough," Potter said simply.

"Burke said. . ."

"Yes?"

"Burke said " Shame and humiliation threatened to take over. He'd never said it, not even to his solicitor; he'd let his solicitor rely on the Ministry reports for his side of the story. "Burke said. . . he said not to touch it."

"So what did you do?"

"I picked it up."

"Why did you pick it up after Burke explicitly told you not to?"

"Because. . . because I didn't want to look stupid, all right? I didn't want Pansy to know I had no idea what it was. She trusted me to know things."

"So you wanted to make yourself look good?"

He wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. "I wouldn't exactly put it that way."

"How would you put it, then?" Potter asked.

"Pansy. . . she always looked fantastic, you know? She always wore the best robes, was always put together. She had. . . this wonderful hair. Totally opposite from mine. Dark. And she had big brown eyes "

"You're straying off topic," Potter said, redirecting him. "That's all incidental."

"It mattered to me."

"All right. But let's get back to the crime itself."

"What else do you want to know?" Draco asked defensively. There went his knee, bouncing and bouncing and bouncing, and he noticed, even though he had his fingers laced together, that his hands were shaking.

"Just say it, Malfoy."

"Say what?"

"Tell what happened next."

"I picked up the gun."

"All right. And?"

"I held it it was instinctual the way it fit into my hand."

"Okay."

"But Burke said he said he'd seen quite a few of these Muggle weapons before, and that I shouldn't touch it. He told me to put it down, asked me didn't I want to stick to the magical items?"

Potter was nodding, but didn't speak.

"What did you do next?" the dark wizard asked.

"I didn't put it down."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't like people telling me what to do."

"So it became about you?" Potter asked. "Rather than the safety of others?"

"That's not what I was thinking."

"Sometimes it's subconscious."

"I did not," Draco said thickly, "mean for it to happen."

"For what to happen?"

"You know what happened."

"But, again, everyone else doesn't."

"The gun went off."

"Why?"

Draco was silent.

"Why, Malfoy? Why did the gun go off?"

"I pulled the thingee."

"You mean the trigger. Why?"

"I didn't know!"

"Burke had told you not to touch it."

"It was a mistake."

"It wasn't a mistake. It was a choice."

"I didn't choose it!"

"But," Potter said evenly, "you did."

"Yeah," said Larsson. "You didn't have to pick it up. Mr. Burke told you not to."

"I know what happened, okay?"

"What did Pansy say when you picked it up?" Mulciber asked, in a normal tone. He seemed genuinely interested in what Draco had to say.

"She didn't say anything."

"Why not?"

"Because because there wasn't time."

"You just picked up a Muggle gun and squeezed the the thingee? Whatever it's called. . ." Entwhistle said.

"The trigger," Draco said. The room was blurry. The memory of that moment reared its ugly head and it came rushing out of him before he could control himself. "Her head. . ." he said, almost choking. "Her head. . ." He palmed the back of his own head and made a lifting motion.

"Yes?" Potter said.

Draco shook his head.

"You've come this far. Finish it."

He couldn't see; the room was swimming. "The back of her head came off."

The group stared at him. He could feel their eyes on him, although he couldn't see for the unbidden tears welling in his eyes. He hadn't cried in seventeen years, but now he felt out of control, like he were drowning. The vision of Pansy's head exploding in front of him had played again and again, like it were burned permanently onto the back of his eyelids. Blood and brain and bone had splattered over one corner of the Crockford estate, and Pansy had collapsed, dead before she hit the floor, beyond the scope of any hope, Wizarding or otherwise, the small hole under her left eye tricking his confidence, until he saw she was on her side and the back of her head was gone. Blood had pooled silently, spreading like a crimson tide into the stone floor. Draco remembered how Caractacus Burke had stood, mouth gaping, blood and bits of flesh covering him. The old man had held his arms up, as if he'd just dipped his hands in wax and was waiting for it to dry. The aftermath was more silent than any time Draco had ever known, and that included the time that Pansy had accidentally hexed his ears off and he'd been deaf for three hours back in their fifth year. They had laughed and laughed about it, as Draco had given Pansy Snape's nose as revenge. His lifelong best friend, his first kiss, his first love, his emotional rock, his business partner, the woman who had introduced Draco to his wife, had simply crumpled and died on him. The feeling of the gun in his hand was burnt indelibly into his flesh, a permanent visceral memory.

"The back of her head came off," he repeated, numb. "The back of her head came off "

"Okay, Malfoy," Potter interjected. He addressed the rest of the group as Draco kept repeating himself under his breath, unable to say it enough times. "It's early, but go ahead and take a break. Be back in fifteen."

The group filed out, no one speaking. Draco sat frozen in his chair; he couldn't catch his breath, he couldn't inhale deeply enough. He was suffocating.

"All right?"

Draco shook his head.

Potter sat there for a moment; he rose. "You did an excellent job," he said, as nicely as he'd ever spoken to Draco, which was to say not overly so. It was more a statement than a heartfelt sentiment, but it was enough to push Draco over the edge.

"Leave," he said, in a strangled voice. "Just fucking go."

"Fine," Potter said. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes. You've got that long to pull yourself together. Because you just opened the gates, Malfoy. There's no going back now. You're going to process this. Tonight."

The door clicked shut.

Two-and-a-half hours later, Draco waited until everyone disbursed. No one talked to him after the lesson; no one offered any support or a kind word; they didn't care about him and he didn't care about them. Fair was fair.

But he had something to say.

"I feel obligated to tell you at this time," Draco said to Potter, as Potter stood in front of him, his arms crossed, "that I'm going across the street to that pub there, and I'm getting right royally pissed. I will be 'drinking to excess', as you like to put it. And I don't care. Recall me. Tonight? I don't fucking care." He stood and grabbed up his robes. Potter didn't budge, didn't say anything, so Draco edged around him, heading for the door. "Also? I'll be seeing you tomorrow, reeking of alcohol from the night before. I thought you ought to know."

And two minutes later the cold night air assailed his hot skin, cooling his face as he pushed his way out of the W.H.O.M.P. building. Without looking back, he strode across the street, narrowly avoiding a Muggle taxi, but not much caring about his well-being. He yanked open the door and stalked into the Toad In the Hole.

W.H.O.M.P.'s required legal documentation was very formal and clinically structured.

Victim Reparation Lesson #19. Offender appears on time for VRL this day; has completed 19 of 20 lessons with no absences and marginally compliant participation. Offender advised by supervising W.H.O.M.P. Auror HJP that offender must complete victim disclosure this date or supervising Auror will file recall request with the Wizengamot with recommendation for sentence reconsideration to thirteen months to be served in custody at Azkaban prison. Offender complied with supervising Auror's directive and completed victim disclosure during today's lesson; supervising Auror notes seven additional offenders were present for disclosure. Offender disdainful of other W.H.O.M.P. offenders and perceives himself as different or special from typical offender profile. Supervising Auror continues to reiterate offender accountability; personal responsibility and acceptance of criminal behaviour is discussed with offender. Offender reluctant to complete victim disclosure; supervising Auror notes offender receives negative reaction from peers. Also notes victim disclosure was very difficult for offender; offender appeared to have emotional and physical reaction from disclosure process. . .

Harry ran the quill's feather back and forth underneath his bottom lip. He knew what he ought to write next. If he were going strictly by protocol, he would be documenting Malfoy's disclosure that he intended to get pissed out of his gourd at the pub across the street. He should be noting Malfoy's report that he planned to appear for his supervision appointment tomorrow still under the influence. It was enough to do a recall on Malfoy.

Yet. . . he could not get over the irony of Malfoy's situation. Draco Malfoy, Death Eater, pureblood, blood purist, pureblood separatist, and all around Muggle-hating twat, had killed his pureblooded best friend with a crude Muggle weapon. After Malfoy's disclosure, he'd . . . well, he hadn't been glad exactly that Malfoy's peers had shown no empathy towards him, but there had been a sense of justice in Malfoy being held beneath contempt by those who he most rejected. Malfoy's sense of entitlement to avoid retribution was profound and deeply entrenched.

However.

Harry opened Malfoy's file and flipped through the hundreds of pages of information inside, going all the way back to the documents put together by the Auror Office before Malfoy had been sentenced. It contained all the Auror reports on the case, Malfoy's criminal history (none), Pansy Parkinson's post-mortem report and the crime scene photographs, and a sentence recommendation to the Wizengamot. The case was, the Auror Office had found, mitigated by extenuating circumstances, the main one being that Malfoy had not known exactly what he was handling. Caractacus Burke may have told Malfoy not to touch the gun, but he hadn't told Malfoy why, hadn't explained to him what a gun was and why it was dangerous. Most Wizarding folk knew of Muggle weapons, but it wasn't inconceivable that a witch or wizard, especially a generational pureblood like Malfoy, would go a lifetime without ever encountering any. Burke had certainly been in the magical artefacts business far longer than Malfoy and Pansy had been, although Malfoy's business had been successful.

Harry pulled out the crime scene photographs and examined them. What was especially depressing about them was the fact that they were Wizarding photos, but nothing was moving. Pansy was dead, her eyes half-closed and unseeing, and, indeed, the back of her skull was missing. Not even the pool of blood grew, for she'd bled out long before the Aurors had arrived on the scene. The photos were as still and quiet as any Muggle picture would have been. Harry shuffled the photos around, and there, the last of the set, was one of Malfoy, sitting alone in a chair, still holding the gun. As the picture replayed itself over and over, Malfoy sat as still as Pansy, except for one gesture when he dropped his head and stared at the gun in his hand, shocked, as if he'd unexpectedly grown a new limb.

It wasn't exactly the best position to be found in by the Aurors. Quite literally, Malfoy had been holding the smoking gun.

Harry pulled out the Auror interview transcripts and glanced through them.

DCI: Did you know the gun was loaded?

DLM: I what?

DCI: The gun. Did you know it was loaded?

DLM: I don't understand. What'd'you mean?

DCI: Did you know there were bullets in the gun?

DLM: What Bullets?

Harry sighed. He'd been imagining going home for hours, of escaping the never-ending weariness that came from working with the unrepentant. But the image of Pansy Parkinson's ruined face was at the forefront; he could only imagine what it was like for Malfoy, who'd known Pansy all his life and had, well, clearly loved her. The thought of Malfoy loving anyone was completely foreign to Harry. But for a moment he imagined it were Hermione lying on that cold stone floor, her life drained from her, and he couldn't begin to fathom how terrible a burden it must be. And Malfoy was assuaging his burden right across the street from Harry's office.

He closed Malfoy's file and slid it to the corner of his desk. He got up and made his way through the hallways of the W.H.O.M.P. department, to the fireplace in the lounge, and he rang home.

"I'm going to be late," he told Ginny when her face appeared in the embers.

"Oh. I'm sorry. Everything okay?"

"No." Harry clarified, "One of my offenders is in a bit of a crisis."

"Who?"

Technically, he wasn't supposed to tell her. "Draco Malfoy."

"Ah."

"Yeah. I don't know when I'll be home, so don't wait up."

"Well, I'll miss you, but okay. Want me to put a plate in the fridge for you?"

"Yeah. Thanks. Hey," he said, "I'm really sorry about this." Harry was quite strict with himself about making it home on time. With a job like his, there needed to regular distance between W.H.O.M.P. and his personal life; he always needed to regroup, for his duties were mentally exhausting.

"Don't even worry about it," Ginny said in an understanding tone. "It's not like you're out regularly. Go on, Harry it's fine. Go see to Malfoy."

"Thanks. Love you."

"Love you too. I'll kiss the kids for you."

"Yes," Harry said. "Do."

Afterwards, he returned to his office, grabbed up his robes and bag, and turned out the light, closing his office door behind him.

Harry found Malfoy sitting alone, obviously. He slid into the bench seat across from Malfoy, tucking his robes and bag against the wall of the booth. The pub was nearly empty. A few patrons sat at the bar, but he and Malfoy were the only ones sitting in the general area.

He folded his hands together and leaned into the table. Malfoy had four empty glasses in front of him.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked, after a long period of silence.

And Malfoy Malfoy the bully, the cold-hearted, the snide, the sardonic, the swaggering supreme git that he was looked at Harry so plaintively that Harry's stomach fluttered and seemed to flop over.

"I miss her."

And Harry did a terrible, very stupid thing. He broke protocol and signaled the waitress. "What he's having."

"Coming up."

The room swam.

Draco'd had two more Firewhiskies in the hour that Potter had been there, and Potter was catching up to him quickly.

They both held their liquor well.

"He's still calling me 'Draco'."

"Scorpius?"

"Yeah." Draco swirled his drink; the ice clinked in his glass.

"What have you done to try and "

"Everything."

Potter nodded and drained his glass.

"Do you normally get pissed with your offenders?"

"Nope."

"Why me?"

"Do you want me to leave?"

"It's a free country," Draco said, unsure why had hadn't just told Potter to fuck the hell off. "Allegedly."

Potter rolled his eyes. "So what's your plan?"

"What plan?"

"For after you're done with your sentence."

"Bloody hell," Draco said, "that's in a month. . ."

"Mmhmm." Potter raised a finger for another drink.

"Quit my crap job, for one thing."

The corner of Potter's mouth lifted. "Oh yeah? That job's crap? You prefer a life of leisure?"

"No." Draco was an exceptionally hard worker, truth told. When he was in a job he liked, that was. "Theo's brilliant with numbers. He could turn a profit using dirt."

"You're not good with numbers?"

"I do all right, but I'm not like Theo. Just leave the bottle," he said to the waitress when she returned to refill their drinks. "It's like he speaks numbers."

"Hermione's like that."

Draco snorted into his glass. "Fucking Granger." He shook his head.

"Actually it's Weasley. Hermione Weasley.

"That is the worst name ever."

"She uses 'Granger' professionally," Potter said, apparently protective.

"At least that."

"So what'll you do when you're done? Seriously."

"Why'd'you care?"

Potter just looked at him.

"I don't know if I'm allowed to go back to what I was doing before, if you really want to know."

"You can do whatever you want once you're off license."

"Then I'll probably go back to artefacts." Draco had loved his job, had loved owning his own business. Yes, he'd bankrolled it with Malfoy gold, but he and Pansy had quickly become solvent and the only time they'd dip into family reserves was when an especially lucrative find would come along. At the time Pansy had died, they'd been in business for four years. Draco had had everything he wanted: A career created from hard work and shrewd decisions, rather than nepotism; a beautiful, funny, caring wife; a perfect son; the manor; friends; and a dark, sinister past put a few steps behind him. Oh, he was still a complete arsehole, but with a little more perspective. "So, why'd you become an Auror anyway? Would've thought you saw enough action. . . well, you know."

Potter smiled. His teeth were even and white, Draco noticed. The first thing Draco had done after his release from Azkaban was to go and have his ruined teeth healed and charmed to look normal again. He'd refused to speak to Astoria or Scorpius until this had been taken care of. He hadn't wanted them to see what Azkaban had done to him.

"Why did I become an Auror?" Potter gave a laugh. "Why did you become a Death Eater?"

"Why do you always turn my questions around?" Draco would not rise to Potter's bait. He would not.

"Because," Potter said, pouring another glass of Firewhisky, "it's not about me."

"Christ, Potter, pretend it's career day or something. If I were your kid and asked you why you became an Auror, what would you tell me?"

"I would say because I like longer days and shorter nights, know what I mean?"

Draco had no idea what Potter meant. "No, I don't know what you mean. Why so cryptic?"

Potter moved his hand across the table, arcing it like a rainbow. "I like having more light in this world than dark."

Draco bristled. "There's beauty in the dark, too." He didn't know where that came from. He just knew that he was dark inside and always had been, and that it was his constitution and he couldn't change it, and that he had been born that way and had been formed and shaped by the perpetual nurturing of shadows.

"Yeah? How's that?"

Draco was definitely drunk. "There's more darkness in the universe than stars, Potter."

"The dark's just " Potter held his hands apart. " a vast expanse of nothingness."

"The dark holds the stars. Light wouldn't have meaning or purpose without the dark. Without the dark? We would die."

Potter considered Draco, not speaking.

He plowed ahead. "There's lots of good things about the dark." He swayed a bit. "For example, you know how they say 'the darkest hour is just before dawn'?" He'd seen enough wakeful nights to know this to be true. "There's this moment, you know, just a moment, in between the darkest hour and the dawn where the sky is blue a black-blue. It's a particularly amazing colour."

"It's strange you know the word 'beauty'."

"Yeah, I know beauty," Draco sniped, frowning. "And you know exactly what I'm going on about. Otherwise, you wouldn't do what you do."

"Oh? How's that?"

"I think you're attracted to the dark, Potter." He held up a hand. "I don't care what you say. You crave darkness. Why else would you muck about in the gloom for a living?"

"This is the most you've ever said to me, you know."

"That's because you've never asked me the right questions."

"I ask what I need to know."

"Then why are you here if you don't need to know more?"

Potter stared into the amber liquid swilling at the bottom of his glass. "I'm here because you aren't all right."

"I could take that in two totally separate ways, you know."

"Take it how you like."

"You care about what happens to me." It was a statement.

"You asked why I became an Auror," Potter said. "People."

"What, you care about people?" Draco said. "Or do you just have a hero complex?"

Potter smiled slightly. "Both."

Shit, Draco realised, Potter must be pissed too. "You like saving people from themselves."

"That's not exactly it," Potter said, stretching his arms across the table until he hit Draco's collection of glasses, his hands folded. "I like showing people alternate choices, that it doesn't have to be bad all the time."

"So whether they take a different path a path of lightness, as you'd put it you're not emotionally invested in which way they go?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"It's entirely on a case-by-case basis."

"Well, Potter, are you invested in mine?"

"I would say so." Potter didn't seem embarrassed by this. "Your case is complex."

"So I'm 'complex', eh?"

"Well, you're a huge pain in the arse, to begin with."

Draco laughed. "That doesn't sound complicated."

"You seem like there are. . ." Potter trailed off.

"What?"

"You seem to have. . . more facets than I thought."

"Why do you think I'm so good at Occlumency?"

"Did you use Occlumency against Voldemort?"

Draco boggled. "Uh, yeah? What, are you mental? Of course I bloody well did."

"And he didn't break you?"

Draco squared his shoulders, haughty. "No," he said. "Not once. Azkaban didn't break me. And neither will you."

"But Pansy did."

His bravado wavered. "I don't know about that."

"Well, I do," Potter said. "Or else we wouldn't be sitting here."

It was Draco's turn for silence.

"Have you spoken with her family?"

"Not since her funeral." Draco took great pause; he admitted something. "Pansy's mother writes to me."

"About what?"

"I don't know. I haven't read the letters." He was too scared and ashamed to be rightfully called out, and while Mrs. Parkinson had a valid grudge, Draco just couldn't take it. He couldn't take one more person who used to love him actively hating him now. He'd grown up with Pansy; one's home had been the other's. Their parents had gotten along wonderfully; Draco knew that Narcissa no longer spoke with Pansy's mother.

"You should read them."

"Yeah, no thanks. Think I've got enough people loathing me at the moment."

"You'd be surprised what victim letters contain. It's actually rare that victims send hateful post. D'you still have them?"

"Yeah, I've kept them. They're in my safe."

Potter indicated Draco's wrist. "You said Pansy gave you that watch."

Draco looked down. "I did?"

"That day in the park."

"Ah. Yeah, she did. She gave it to me when we left Hogwarts. It's inscribed."

"What's it say?"

It was both a blessing and a curse. "The best mirror is an old friend."

Potter nodded. "Ironic."

"Just a little bit."

"Have you thought about getting a new watch?"

"Of course not!"

"Just an idea."

"Why would I do that?"

"To move on."

"I don't want to move on."

"Why not?"

"Because " Draco didn't quite know how to put it. "Moving on means forgetting. It would be disloyal."

"You think you could possibly forget this?"

Draco twisted his watch again and again. He thought of the image that haunted him, Pansy curled up on the floor with part of her head missing. He thought no matter how old he got, how demented, how much of a shell he became, he would never forget what he had done. "No."

"Malfoy, you've got more light than you think."

This was a rather shocking statement coming from Potter. "What?"

"I said, you've got more light than you think."

"You're pissed."

"Yeah," Potter admitted, "but I think I'm also right."

"What'd'you know?"

"I know you have made some good choices in your life."

Draco rolled his eyes. "I thought you didn't approve of my choices."

"Not most of them," Potter said. "But I will acknowledge something to you right here, right now." He poked the table for emphasis. "I believe that you might have been killed if Voldemort had known you let us go."

Draco knew instantly what Potter was talking about. "Absolutely he would've killed me." He tapped the side of his head. "Occlumency again."

"Why'd you do it?"

Why had he done it? He hadn't thought much about it over the years, for it strayed into the disparate emotions he had had about Potter at the time, some of which remained: the desire to be held as worthy; the desire to be acknowledged as an equal; rivalry; and, he understood, a latent attraction. He'd been so angry and Potter's insinuations had been that he was a coward, that his choices were somehow easy, that he was worthless and a waste of space. "Wasn't it you who said it's our choices that show who we are?" A moment of silence stretched out between them.

Potter finally spoke. "It was Dumbledore who said it first, but yeah."

"Then take that choice for what it was."

"Fair enough."

"Do you have my wand still?"

"Yeah, I have it."

"Why?"

It wasn't like it was some huge secret in the Wizarding World, how Potter had defeated Voldemort or Voldemort's Horcruxes and the Boy-Who-Lived lore behind it. Hundreds of in-depth books had been written about the second fall of Voldemort, including a three-book series by Rita Skeeter who, for once, had produced a fairly truthful account of the events. Draco knew he was named in these books, as temporary master of the Elder Wand (God, how he wished he had known! Damn.) But it was Potter people were most interested in, not Draco. That his wand had been the one to actually kill Voldemort sometimes came up when conversation turned to the war, but most people found it more a novelty than a serious point of interest.

"I can't give it back to you."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't have the allegiance of the Elder Wand switch, which is what I think would happen."

"So you actually considered giving me my wand back?"

"Yeah."

"Why would you do that?"

"I don't need it." Potter clarified, "But I do need its allegiance."

"Do you need it forever?"

"Until I die, yeah."

"Well, can I at least have Astoria's Dreamless Sleep back once I'm off?"

Potter laughed. "You'll get your things back."

"Well, I have officially drunk to excess," Draco said, sliding across the bench. "I'm going to hit the loo." He looked at Potter. "Do I need a purple sparkly cup?"

"Nope," Potter said, meeting his gaze. "I'll be having you sign a substance-use admission form tomorrow, stating that you drank alcohol in excess, in violation of your terms of license."

Draco shrugged. "It's better than a piss test."

Harry was very, very intoxicated. He never puked when he drank, but rather developed absolutely wretched hangovers. He knew he'd sorely regret this in the morning, but for now he was comfortable.

"Malfoy," he said, when Malfoy returned from the loo, "about tonight. . . the lesson. . . are you all right?"

"I'm sitting here downing a bottle of Firewhisky with my W.H.O.M.P. Auror. I'm obviously very unwell."

"I'm serious."

"I am too."

"Have you thought about talking with someone confidentially about what happened?"

It took Malfoy a moment. "You mean a Healer specialist? Absolutely not."

"Why not?"

"Because," Malfoy said, as if it were obvious, "I'm not mental and that's for poofs."

"Okay, that? Is absurd. Why would you even say that?"

"What, been to a Healer specialist, Potter? Am I hitting too close to home?"

Harry didn't know whether to laugh or to reach across the table and thunk Malfoy between the eyes for being an idiot. "Right. I'm just saying there's nothing wrong with "

"It would be weak."

"It's not weak."

"I can handle it on my own."

"How's that working out for you, Draco?" Harry looked at Malfoy, raising a brow.

"Look, I know he's still calling me 'Draco', but he just needs to get over it. I'm his father and I'm not about to give in to petty antics from a nine-year-old."

"You think it's petty that your son won't call you 'Dad'?"

"That's not what I meant "

"Because I reckon he's got a really good reason for doing it."

"Rubbish. He wants to hack me off."

"For eight months?"

"Well, let's hear your suggestion, Potter, since you're obviously the expert on my kid."

"I'm just saying he has a reason for doing it. Did something happen right before it started?"

Malfoy was quiet. "Actually, I could say it's your fault."

"Oh?" Harry was amused.

"Completely."

"How so?"

"If you hadn't of made me take that substances test that one day "

"What one day?"

"During that first appointment."

"What's that have to do with Scorpius?"

"Well, I sort of. . . ranted about it."

"I still don't get the connection."

"I may have got a bit. . . vehement."

"Did you scare him?"

Malfoy was shredding his cocktail napkin, little bits at a time, looking intently at what he was doing. "No. I mean, I don't think so. Possibly?"

"What did you say?"

Malfoy shrugged. "A lot of things."

"Like what?"

"I was angry."

"What'd you say?"

"I may have said that W.H.O.M.P. was fucking bullshit."

"Why would that upset Scorpius?"

"I might have said a bit more."

"Let's hear it."

"I said. . . I said. . . that W.H.O.M.P. was fucking bullshit and that I'd rather serve out my sentence in Azkaban."

"Ah. And that's when he started calling you 'Draco'?"

"Yeah."

"Makes sense."

"Of course it does. Except not."

"How old was Scorpius when you went to Azkaban?"

"Four. Well, four-and-a-half really."

"And did he see you at all while you were incarcerated?"

Malfoy shook his head. "Azkaban doesn't allow visitors. Hell, I barely got my owlpost. If the guards are feeling like even bigger shitheads than usual when the owls come, they'll just burn your letters."

"I thought maybe you would've been able to pull some strings for a visit."

"Nope."

"Hmm."

"You know that's why your offenders hate your bloody guts, right? Well, aside from the fact that you're a huge prick. . . it's because you don't know Azkaban."

Harry shifted and met Malfoy's eyes; Malfoy's face was flushed, which made him look rather like a pointy lobster, as he was usually pale as moondust. "I've been to Azkaban hundreds of times, Malfoy. It's part of my job."

"Christ." Malfoy looked at Harry contemptuously. "It's not the same thing. You've never been to Azkaban. You've never known what it's like to freeze for four years or to pick cockroaches out of every meal. And let's not forget the Dementors." Malfoy waggled his fingers at Harry, mocking him.

"Very funny. Look, I'm not going to apologise for not going to Azkaban, for fuck's sake!" How absurd.

"I'm just saying it matters. To them." Malfoy tipped his glass into his mouth, once again draining it. "To me."

"Why?"

"Because you want to save everyone in the little W.H.O.M.P. world you've created, but you don't even know what from." Malfoy pointed at him. "I challenge you. Spend at least a month inside Azkaban. Then? You'll have a taste of what shapes us."

"A month?" Harry swayed slightly. "One month. Hmm. I reckon the Ministry could probably arrange it."

Malfoy sat back. "You're serious?"

"I am. I think it's an. . . interesting idea."

"You do?"

"Mmhmm." Harry took a drink. "You may have a point."

"Potter, I should tell you Azkaban is a lot of things. 'Interesting' isn't one of them."

"We were talking about Scorpius."

"Oh, you remember?"

"I always remember."

"I suppose that's what makes you so good at your job," Malfoy said sardonically.

"Partly," Harry said, feeling self-satisfied. "Anyhow, Scorpius?"

Malfoy looked away. "After I said I should serve out my sentence in Azkaban, well, he got upset."

"What did he say?"

"He said if I " Malfoy squared his shoulders, defensive. "He said if I wanted to serve out my sentence in Azkaban then I should go back, and that " He stopped.

"And that what?"

"You wouldn't think a child would be able to say things you know. Things that actually "

"Hurt?"

Malfoy looked at Harry and then glanced away again.

"What did Scorpius say?"

Malfoy's gaze was fixed on his glass. "He said that he and Astoria had been great without me, and that it would be fine if I went back to Azkaban." He looked up. "He said he didn't even remember me."

Harry nodded slowly and a silence fell over them.

"I can't make up for it," Malfoy finally said. "There's nothing I can do."

"No." Harry agreed. "There isn't."

"I can't give him back four-and-a-half years."

"No, you can't."

"Sometimes I don't even want to try. It's too hard." Harry realised that Malfoy had to be incredibly pissed to be saying this; his fa?de was down big time.

"I'm thinking you'll have to keep trying."

"Why?"

"Don't you want to be a better father to Scorpius than Lucius was to you?"

Malfoy reacted viscerally to this. "You have no idea what kind of father "

"Malfoy. You were a Death Eater at sixteen. I know what kind of father you have."

"It's complicated."

"It's not."

"What would you know about having a father?"

"More than you'd think."

"I gotta take a piss."

"Then go."

Harry watched Malfoy as he headed to the loo. He only gave away his drunkenness once; as he entered the narrow corridor leading to the bathroom, Malfoy stumbled slightly and swayed against the wall before regaining his balance. He disappeared into the dim light.

Harry actually got through another drink before he realised that Malfoy hadn't returned.

There was a small double-hung window in the men's loo and Draco had felt a little nauseous, so he had slid the window open and was allowing the outside chill to envelope him. He couldn't believe he'd held his liquor, despite his natural tolerance, which was actually quite high. Everything seemed unreal, like he was in an alternate reality, and there were tiny glowing auras around every light source he could see. He tipped his head back and looked up into the sky. It was a vividly clear night and Draco was mesmerised by the darkness surrounding the flickering stars. There is more darkness than light. . . When the door opened, he didn't even have to turn around.

"Just getting some fresh air," he said to Potter. "I'm thinking."

Potter slung his bag under the sink and took up at the urinal. "About what?"

"Scorpius once asked me if my father ever read to me when I was a kid, and I told him no, my father did other things with me. And now I'm trying to remember what those things were."

"And?"

"He bought me a lot of things. . ."

"I think we're all aware of that," Potter said dryly.

"Excuse me? There's nothing wrong with getting a broom. You had a Nimbus 2000 and a Firebolt."

"I didn't have the Hand of Glory or the Dark Mark."

"Fuck off, Potter."

"I know. Your father also took you Muggle hunting at the Quidditch World Cup. That's quality time right there."

"I didn't do anything to any Muggles there!"

"What about Lucius? Did he?"

"I'm pretty sure you can figure that out."

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Take it however you want." Draco was getting testy. He really didn't want to look at the reality of what Lucius was at that particular moment.

Potter was taking the world's longest piss.

Draco was seized by vindiction. He turned around, crossed over to the urinal, and planted himself there, and stared. Two things happened. One, the room tilted a bit; Draco caught himself on Potter's shoulder. And, two, Merlin on a cracker, Potter was endowed.

Potter looked sideways, lifting an eyebrow. "What're you doing?"

"What?" Draco asked, feigning innocence. "You don't like being watched?"

"No. Step back."

"I don't think so."

"Step back before I finish up on your shoes."

"Why, that's very professional of you, Potter, but no worries. I have lots of shoes."

"Malfoy, stop being a sod."

"Maybe I should become an Auror and get paid to be a sod."

"Not bloody likely. Now step back. You have three seconds."

"Oh, I'm sure I could learn to be an excellent Auror, what with me having the inside knowledge of what it's like to be a criminal, and I'm sure I could learn to like watching other blokes hold their cocks and " BAM!

Potter had raised his arm and popped Draco hard in the mouth with the back of his fist, so quickly that it took Draco a moment to register what had happened. He tasted the coppery tinge of blood and stepped back, lifting the back of his hand to his mouth.

"Thank you," Potter said, finally finishing up. Draco heard the run of Potter's zip as he did himself up. He turned, arms crossed over his chest. "I could arrest you for violating your license."

"Are you joking? You just assaulted me!"

"That? Oh, that was self-defence."

"Self-defence? Are you mental?"

"What you did could be construed as a sexual assault."

"A sexual assault?" Draco was enraged. "What is it you do every day, then, if you're watching everyone's dick "

"It's not the same thing."

"Yes it is."

"It's not. You crossed a line, Malfoy."

"I did not. I just wanted to show you what it feels like to be watched."

Potter held Draco's gaze. "Do you really think I made it through my W.H.O.M.P. training without having to endure that?"

"I wouldn't know what your W.H.O.M.P. training consists of, except how to be the world's biggest arsehole with a hell of a sadistic streak. God," Draco said, over his hand, his eyes narrowed. "Look what you did to me."

"You should have stepped back."

Draco's rage surged, and he advanced. "If I assaulted you? You would know it." And before Potter could react, Draco smacked his palms against Potter's chest and shoved, and Potter stumbled back into the wall, knocking the back of his head.

"Hey!"

But Draco had his wand trained between Potter's brows, right above his stupid glasses, and he was drunk and livid and all semblance of control was falling away. Everything was so bad in his life that he thought Why not? He was one month out from release from W.H.O.M.P. and here he was, impulsively tossing his freedom away by holding an Auror Harry Potter, no less at wandpoint. He wasn't even allowed to use his wand beyond standard level one spells.

"Malfoy." Potter's voice was stern and commanding. "Lower your wand. Don't do this to yourself."

"What do you fucking care?" His hand was shaking he was so angry. Five years of horror, of trauma, of loss and death came pouring from the little compartments in his mind right into his very soul; it was unbearable. He had no future to look forward to; the unknown stretched out in front of him, bleak and grey and blurred. No matter how much he might squint or peer, he couldn't get anything to come into focus. "Who cares?"

"You care. I care."

"No, you don't. . ." Draco's voice was shaking as badly as his wand. He was a mess.

"Uh, I actually do?"

"You know that I can do the Unforgivables. You know it."

Potter was raising one hand slowly, his hand outstretched as if he were going for the Golden Snitch. "I know you can do two of them, but I don't think you can do the third. You've never done it. I've read your Azkaban file. I know what they asked you under Veritaserum." His fingers were at the tip of Draco's wand until he was pressing against its end, forcing Draco's hand to steady. They held one another at bay. "And I know that you lowered your wand that night on the Astronomy Tower I was there. You chose not to kill Dumbledore, even though it put you smack in the middle of Voldemort's crosshairs. He could have killed you as easily for that as for letting us go at your manor." Potter nodded determinedly, his jaw set. "I know what you are, Malfoy. I also know what you aren't. Now stand down."

But Draco was flooded, all his emotions and damage and darkness seeping through him, and he kept his wand up while he tried frantically to figure out how get out of this situation he'd created. "You're going to recall me."

"I might have to." One thing about Potter, Draco acknowledged, was that he didn't lie, even when it put himself at risk. "True."

"I don't I can't not there "

"Lower your wand."

"I can't."

"Why can't you? Yes, you can."

"Because once I lower my wand it's all over. You're going to hobble me and float me out of this pub and straight over to W.H.O.M.P. and you told me that if I fucked up, you could have me back in Azkaban within two hours. But "

"But what?"

"Where else am I going to go?"

"You could go home."

"It's hardly a home, Potter. You know that."

"Your family is there."

"My family?" He gave an empty laugh. "You mean my lovely wife who I haven't shagged once since I've been out of prison, who cries at night when she thinks I'm asleep? My son who hates me and won't even call me 'Dad'? My mother who is so ashamed of me that she can't even bear to look at me, much less have a conversation. And, of course, there's my father, who you so aptly called out for not giving a rat's arse about me to begin with. Is that the wonderful family you're referring to?"

Potter's fingers had closed around the end of Draco's wand and he held it firmly. "Lower your wand. Look, your family's a mess because you haven't made amends. You haven't made amends with anybody. You've been on license for a full year and you just admitted you even committed a crime at all tonight!"

"IT WAS A MISTAKE "

"I know it was a mistake," Potter said quietly, grasping the end of Draco's wand. "But it was also a crime. A preventable crime. Lower your wand. I don't want to have to disarm you."

"No!"

"C'mon, Malfoy. Lower it."

"If I lower my wand, what's going to happen?" Draco's voice shook.

"I will do things the nice way," Potter said, placating Draco. "I will only restrain your wrists in front of you, and then I'll put my robes over your hands so it won't be as obvious, and then we'll walk out of here nice and easy, cross back over the street, and go back to W.H.O.M.P."

"And then what?"

"I. . . don't know."

Draco's mind was racing drunkenly, and the same feeling he'd had those many years ago at the Wizengamot, just before he'd been sent to Azkaban, returned in full force, and his fight-or-flight instinct took over. "That?" he said to Potter, taking a step backwards, "That's no incentive." And he bolted. He bolted for the bathroom door, and he almost had the knob fully turned when the distinct sound of the door locking echoed through the bathroom. He whirled; Potter was advancing, his own wand drawn.

"Malfoy " Potter was speaking very calmly and he held out his left hand. "Give me your wand for safekeeping. You're not thinking clearly."

"Neither are you! And I'm not giving you yet another wand!"

"I'm not the one who needs to worry here."

"Oh yeah?" Draco said, his back pressed up against the locked door, his wand at his side. "I'm sure your supervisor'd be thrilled to hear you got pissed with me outside of office hours."

"Meaning?"

"I'll be lodging a complaint."

Potter laughed. "Go ahead."

This was the second time Potter'd said this to him. "Why do you always say that?"

"Honestly, Malfoy, do you really think they'd believe you?"

Draco was instantly enraged and the injustice of it filled him like a black, bitter poison. Deep down he knew Potter was right who would they believe? The Boy-Who-Lived or the Death-Eater-Who-Killed? And Potter had said it outright. He was. . . smug.

Draco launched himself at Potter, his wand clattering to the floor, forgotten. No, he didn't want to use any spells on Potter; he wanted to use his hands. Draco head-butted Potter right in the gut, sending Potter flying backwards, his wand knocked from his hand. It arced gracefully over Draco's head and landed near to Draco's. Potter flew backwards once again, smacking up against the heavy brick wall. Draco had his hands around Potter's throat in an instant, and he squeezed down, his fingers and thumb digging into either side of Potter's windpipe. Potter scrabbled at Draco's hand, pulling, but Draco had a vice-like grip.

Potter reached up and grabbed Draco's jaw and dug his thumbs deep into the flesh just underneath the joint and lifted. The pain was excruciating and Draco reflexively grabbed at Potter's hands and pulled. They didn't budge. Draco pawed wildly, and since he was taller, thus had longer arms, he managed to weave his fingers through Potter's messy mop of hair. He tightened his fists as hard as he could and yanked. Potter let go of his jaw and clamped his hands on top of Draco's and turned, as if dancing, and straightened, still holding Draco's hands. He squatted slightly and stepped back and Draco's hands were bent backwards at the wrists so far that he thought they might snap.

"Ah, fuck, let go!" Draco was up on his tiptoes, trying to back away from Potter, but Potter kept a tight hold of his hands and kept walking backwards, until Draco was back up against the bathroom door with a thunk. Moving his hands, Potter dug his thumbs into the soft underside of Draco's wrists; Draco opened his hands reflexively and Potter ducked out from his grasp. Whirling, Potter slammed Draco's shoulders against the door, holding him there.

"Stop it, Malfoy," Potter said, breathing rapidly. "Don't make this worse than it already oof!"

Draco's brought up his leg and kneed Potter in the upper thigh so hard that Potter fell to the ground like a ripe melon on pavement, and Draco went for Potter's wand, which had rolled under the sink and was resting next to Potter's rucksack. "Yes!" he said, and reached.

Potter's hand was at his wrist; he wrenched Draco's arm backwards and behind his back and Potter actually flopped down on top of Draco, flattening himself over Draco's body and grabbing for his wand. Draco reached with his left hand but was too late. Potter's fingers closed around his wand and he scooped it up. Draco felt its cool tip just behind his ear.

"Desist," Potter said, his breath hot. He was so close Draco felt his hair moving. "Right now."

Draco went limp, defeated. Anger coursed through him and frustration at never being able to get the upper hand ate at him like acid. It was so bloody unfair. . . . Potter relaxed a bit and start to lift up.

Draco didn't know where it came from.

Mustering all his strength, Draco raised up and threw his head back and was satisfied when bone crunched against the back of his head. He writhed under Potter, straining to flip over.

"Fuck!" Potter bellowed, and then he'd pulled up and was sitting on Draco's arse, leaning back, and Draco managed to turn himself over. Now Potter was sitting on his cock.

Fabulous.

"Malfoy, you fucking arsehole," Potter groaned, holding his face. Blood leaked from between his fingers and quickly Potter put his wand to the bridge of his nose, letting copious droplets of blood fall onto Draco's belly. "Episkey." There was a second crunching noise and Potter called out again, and then Potter's face was in Draco's and he was opening his mouth probably to tell Draco that he was under arrest for violation of his license, assault, and Merlin-only-knew what else, and Draco was pissed and his cock was burgeoning in his trousers because of Potter's weight and he savagely hoped that Potter would feel him against his arse.

He lifted up and went right for Potter's mouth, sucking at Potter's bottom lip and biting down with a pointy incisor until he tasted blood (he didn't know if he'd breached the delicate skin of Potter's lip, or if it was from the nosebleed), and at first he was merely going to bite Potter, was going to mark him, but Potter's lip was full and smooth and he might have tasted of Firewhisky, but Draco couldn't tell he was too drunk himself. "Mmmphf!"

Draco grabbed Potter around the neck, holding him in place with an iron grip, and he brought his knees up, making it difficult for Potter to move. And although Draco had never done it before there were certain things that just weren't done in Azkaban he released Potter's lip and then kissed him brutally, tilting his head just enough so that their noses didn't mash together, and he sought out Potter's tongue with his own, groaning as he slid into Potter's hot, wet mouth. And what made his cock harden and throb was that just for a split second Potter responded, moved his tongue against Draco's, let his lips relax a touch, before tensing and pulling away, but Draco had him firm.

"Malfoy," Potter choked into his mouth, his breath rich with liquor, "Stop it"

"Shut up." Draco breathed and went right back in. Kissing Harry Potter his childhood rival, his moral nemesis, his supervising W.H.O.M.P. Auror, his relentless, inexorable captor tasted so good that Draco was filled with the need to do everything all at once to touch, lick, fuck, suck, eat, shove, shame, and assert himself. "Give it to me Give it back Come on, you bloody fucking cunt "

"Don't call me a cunt," Potter said against Draco's mouth.

"You are a cunt." Draco thrust up against Potter's arse. "A stupid fucking cunt "

"Fuck you, Malfoy," Potter said, and bit down on Draco's lip in return.

"You like it?" Draco ground his erection harder and faster. "You like it."

"This is wrong," Potter said, running the tip of his tongue over Draco's lip.

Their mouths couldn't take each other in fast enough, hard enough, and Draco thought he'd not had anything as sublime as Potter. "Potter, I'm taking my hands off your neck. And I'm going to put them somewhere else."

"My cock," Potter muttered. "Touch my cock."

Draco fumbled at Harry's trousers and yanked the zip down. Potter's cock was practically to his bellybutton; the top poked out from the waistband of his shorts, the foreskin fully retracted by Potter's arousal. The tip was dusky and smooth. Draco ran his fingers down Potter's exposed length. "It's huge," Draco said, struck.

"Yeah," Potter said, grabbing Draco's hand and stroking his length with it, "it is." Potter shrugged.

"Get up."

"Why?"

"Just get up!"

Potter nipped at Draco's lip. "This is wrong, Malfoy. I "

"Oh, no. There's no going back now," Draco said. He had his hand wrapped around Potter's cock and was stroking as best he could, but he wasn't able to reach Potter's full length or his sac. "The moment you kissed me back? You fucked up. And it doesn't matter if it's a little fuck up or a big one I'm sure for you, one equals the other." Draco drew his hand away and wiggled out from underneath Potter; he grasped Potter's shoulders and stood, making sure his own cock, still in his trousers, rubbed its way up Potter's face. "Get up."

Potter rose and his trousers eased down, exposing him further. Draco wanted to suck Potter's cock into his mouth, wanted to taste the musky skin, to tongue the slit at the tip. He shoved Potter against the locked door, not even considering that another patron might come along, wanting the loo. He went down on his knees and grabbed Potter's cock with his left hand, squeezing and stroking and circling against Potter's balls, pressing down hard until Potter groaned.

"What'd'you want?" Draco asked, flicking his gaze upwards.

"To fuck your mouth. To shut you up. . ."

"Just for a minute," Draco said. He took Potter's cock between his palms, rolling it, languidly pulling at his length. He touched the tip of his tongue to the underside of Potter, licking and sucking at Potter's frenum. He mouthed underneath the thatch of black curls there, huffing against Potter's balls and tickling behind them before taking them in his hand and squeezing down hard.

"Ah!" Potter reached down, closing his hand over Draco's and hauling it upwards. He wrapped Draco's hand around his cock, his hand guiding Draco as he jerked up and down, bearing down on Draco's fingers, tighter and tighter. "I told you I want to fuck your mouth." Potter had his free hand at the side of Draco's face, rubbing at the corner of his lips, caressing there with his thumb. "Malfoy. . ."

"Yeah? What do I get to fuck, then?"

Potter reached with both hands, leaving Draco to attend to his cock alone. Potter pressed his thumbs into Draco's jaw, just below the ears, and Draco's mouth involuntarily opened, and Potter put a thumb to Draco's chin and pressed downwards. Draco felt the tip of Potter's cock at his lips and he tongued the slit there, which was a bit salty in the way that skin is. Draco bumped the inside of Potter's thigh, urging him to spread his legs, to lower himself, and Potter widened his stance. He threaded his fingers through Malfoy's hair and fisted there and drove his cock into Draco's mouth, using his hands to guide Draco's head.

Draco gagged and pulled back. He'd been on the receiving end before but had never given head himself; he opted to try what felt good to him. He slicked up the base of Potter's cock with a good amount of saliva and stroked as he tongued and sucked as much of Potter's enormous erection as he could. His senses were electrified through the hazy mist of alcohol, and he was grateful for the Firewhisky, for it meant he'd last longer, he'd be able to prolong his orgasm. He couldn't get over the fact that this was Potter Potter was in his mouth, had his hands buried in Draco's hair. Draco sucked and stroked and Potter thrust and circled, and then Potter moaned and sped up. Draco pulled back immediately; he wasn't ready for this to be over. He gave Potter one last stroke before planting both hands on either side of his torso and rising. "My turn."

"What do I do?"

"Undo my trousers. Take them down." Draco nuzzled at Potter's neck, tonguing him there, and then he bit down, drawing the tender flesh into his mouth, sucking.

"Don't leave any marks!" Potter gasped and inhaled sharply.

Draco was thrusting his tented trousers against Potter's cock, which was sticking straight up, his balls drawn up tight. "I told you take down my trousers. Or do you need a purple sparkly cup to get into the mood?"

Potter reached for Draco's button and undid it after a bit of fumbling. He drew Draco's zip down. He paused as Draco moved against him frantically.

"It's been a very long time," Draco said, his breath hitching. "Take my trousers down. Now."

Potter slid his hands up and under Draco's shirt and into the front of Draco's shorts. He eased them down, releasing Draco's cock. It was so stiff it was practically parallel to Draco's body. Draco flattened his elbows against the door until he was belly to belly with Potter. "Pull up your shirt," Potter ordered, tugging his own up.

"You do it." Potter did and hot skin on skin increased Draco's excitement exponentially. He thrust his cock against Potter's, moaning despite himself. It felt exquisite. Potter was so hard; he was so hard. "Have you done this before?"

"Shag an offender?" Potter asked, frowning. "No."

"No," Draco said. "I meant have you ever had cock on cock, hmm? Nothing feels quite the same."

"No. . ." Potter reached down and wrapped his hand around them both, squeezing. Draco fucked his hand straightaway. The friction of Potter's cock against his own was delicious, and the added pressure of Potter's grip forced his foreskin up over his tip, rubbing, sheathing. He reached down and pinched at Potter's sac.

"Fuck," Potter said, his eyes closing. "Do that. . ."

Draco pinched little crescents into Potter's balls, stopping to massage and feel each one separately, rolling them in his fingers. He dragged his lower lip across Potter's and Potter raised a hand to the back of his neck and leaned forwards. It was a demanding, possessive kiss, Potter's tongue hard and probing; Draco slid his tongue against Potter's as Potter continued stroking them together.

It was the foreskin thing, Draco decided, that had him close to coming. "Stop," he said, breaking their kiss, trying to pull away, but Potter wouldn't let go.

"No," Potter said. "Come on me."

Draco groaned. He didn't want to come just yet. "No," he objected, "not yet. It's too soon."

"Would think it would last longer with the Firewhisky?" Potter said against Draco's neck, kissing him there. "Firewhisky makes me come slow." He was still touching Draco's cock, running his fingers up and down its length lightly.

"Maybe you shouldn't come at all," Draco said, breathless and hot. "You know what you need, Potter? A taste of Azkaban. Yeah?"

"No "

"Too bad." Draco grabbed Potter by the front of his shirt and whirled him around and shoved him towards the toilet cubicle. Potter crashed against the door, falling through it. He stumbled backwards and sat down hard on the toilet, and Draco followed him in. He smacked the door closed behind him and turned and slid the lock shut. "Bathrooms are very popular for fucking in Azkaban did you know?"

"Why would I know that?" Potter'd straddled the toilet, waiting for Draco to make a move. He looked up at Draco and Draco felt an electric rush pour straight through him. He moved forwards and stepped over Potter. Who's in charge now? he thought.

"Time to return the favour, Potter," Draco said, putting his hand to Potter's chin. He eased his cock into Potter's mouth; Potter openly grimaced. He grabbed Potter's head and rolled his hips, his arse tightening with each thrust. This was a very bad idea, Draco thought, as after five or six strokes, he felt his orgasm coil behind his cock. "You want me to come on you?" he asked, his voice tight. He thrust faster, Potter's tongue swiping and swirling against him; he wanted to get as close to the edge as possible without falling.

Potter nodded, talking around Draco's shaft, his eyes closed. "Yeah. . . do it. . ."

"Maybe," Draco said, all the auras around the lights playing at his senses. The Firewhisky was coursing through him; he was bold, uninhibited. He ran his hands up Potter's torso, rubbing at his taut belly and then going higher to skim his fingertips over his nipples. He rubbed back and forth, scratching lightly there and he imagined Potter's cock tightening from the sensation. It always did it for him, so why not someone else? Draco sat down, onto Potter's thighs. Their erections bobbed and the heads brushed together. Exquisite. "This is the only way to get any face-to-face action in Azkaban, Potter. By sitting on a toilet." He scooted forwards, ignoring Potter's Ow as Draco's thighs pressed down against Potter's, driving them into the plastic seat. Draco reached for Potter's arse and used it for leverage to pull himself closer. Potter grabbed Draco's tie and pulled him in for another kiss.

Kissing a man was entirely different for Draco than kissing a woman. Potter's kisses were strong, commanding, masculine neither of them were kissing each other in the way they would a woman. Potter smelt male and drunk and sweaty after a long day's work, and Draco imagined he himself was likely in the same condition.

They moved against one another until their balls meshed and flattened together. Draco stood suddenly, pulling Potter up by his tie, and he lifted him off from the toilet and turned him, slamming Potter into the cubicle door; the side of his face mashed against the wood. Draco twisted Potter's arm around and up and held it against his back, and laid his full weight into it. "Ever get fucked up the arse, Potter?" Draco whispered maliciously, rubbing his cock in the cleft in Potter's backside.

Potter practically exploded. "Don't!" He struggled against Draco, straining to release his arm. With his free hand he reached back, taking up a fistful of Draco's shirt and pulled, which only resulted in Draco being dragged closer. Draco dropped his free hand to Potter's hip and ground his cock into Potter's arse, circling and drawing his length up and down. Potter was thrashing, so Draco leaned in further, pressing Potter's chest firmly against the door, wrenching his restrained arm.

"Calm down," Draco commanded, his cock gliding. "It feels good. . ."

"I "

But Draco noticed Potter was tentatively pushing back against him, meeting his thrusts. "See? I'm going to let go of your arm and you're going to unlock the cubicle door, all right?"

Potter nodded. Draco let go. Potter's hand slammed flat against the door; it crept upwards until Potter was fumbling with the slide lock, undoing it. The lock clanked open, sliding to the left. Potter walked them back to the toilet and opened the door, pulling up his trousers. He stumbled out of the cubicle. As Draco made to follow him, Potter pulled his wand. "Stand down, Malfoy."

"Why?"

"Because."

"You liked it. You stand down."

"I could arrest you "

"For what? Sucking my dick? Sticking your tongue down my throat? Rutting against me like some kind of animal?"

"They'll never believe that."

"That's what Veritaserum's for."

Potter gazed at him drunkenly and the unthinkable happened: Potter lowered his wand. He struggled with the waist of his loose trousers, stumbling sideways, but managed to stow his wand away.

Draco laughed. "You are rat-arsed, Potter. I'm surprised."

"Yeah?"

"You're just so virtuous."

"Mmm. Okay."

"Although I suppose you weren't the paragon of virtue while you were eating my cock." Draco tsk-ed. "Were you?"

Potter said nothing, but leaned back against the sink, clutching at its rim, steadying himself.

Draco circled around him, predatory, not taking his eyes away from Potter's face. He was waiting for the right moment to pounce. Potter looked positively green.

"Going to be sick?" Draco asked, smirking.

"Nah," Potter said, fumbling with his trousers. "Just need to get home. This was. . ."

"Was?" Draco asked with a snort. "Is. This isn't over yet."

"Yeah? Maybe I'm done "

"I'm not." Draco moved towards Potter and was quickly between his legs. "Oh, no," he said as he thrust forwards; his cock was still rock hard, his trousers undone, and the tip of his erection brushed against Potter's. "Turn around."

"Why?"

"Because I want to touch your arse."

"Ahh "

Draco was brushing his lips over Potter's neck, feather light, back and forth. "Turn around," he whispered, directing Potter. He swung Potter around so that he was facing the sink. They were both visible in the large square mirror covering the wall behind the sink. "Hold on."

Potter grasped the smooth porcelain edges of the sink as Draco ran his hands up Potter's back; his skin was so hot and smooth. Draco buried his face in the nape of Potter's neck, stooping a tad so he could reach. He pushed Potter's shirt up, exposing his back and torso and, of course, his glorious cock. Draco reached around and wrapped his hand around Potter's thick shaft and began to stroke, but his hand was sticking to Potter's skin, which wasn't as dry and smooth as it had been earlier, undoubtedly due to their antics. Potter's breath hitched in his throat.

"I know what'll help. You ever been lubed up?"

Potter looked back over his shoulder at Draco, so beautifully wanton and corrupted that Draco's cock jumped in anticipation. He grabbed onto Harry's hips and ground against him, urging his orgasm to keep circling, to just stay right there beneath the surface until he called it up.

"Yeah," Potter said, his voice strange and distance. "Lots of times. . ."

"That wife of yours she's pretty "

"Don't talk about Ginny." Potter was emphatic. "Do it."

"Give me your hand. . ." Draco waited until Potter complied and he drew his wand and incanted silently. "Is that enough?"

Potter looked. "More."

Draco repeated his spell. "Put it on. I want to watch you touch yourself."

Potter tilted his hand over the dark, swollen head and the lubricant eased from his palm, dripping down over his cock, rolling down. He started massaging himself, starting at the head and working his way down his shaft. "Oh God," he said, as he began sliding through his fist. He rubbed himself, up and down, slowly, in control.

Draco watched, mesmerised, and he thought his cock might explode from excitement. Although he hadn't been planning on it, he greedily filled his own hand with the lubricant and slicked up his erection. "Oh, fuck, Potter " He closed his eyes and let his head fall back as he wanked himself hard and fast, compared to Potter's slow pace. "I'm going to come "

"Don't," Potter said, reaching behind him and grabbing up Draco's hands by the wrists. "You said you'd come on me "

"I'm standing right behind you, twatwaffle," Draco said, entirely miffed that his orgasm was at bay again. "Where else was I going to come?" Draco leaned in and nipped at Potter's earlobe. "I want to watch my come roll down your arse."

"Yeah," Potter said, continuing to stroke himself. He was using both hands, one stacked on top of the other; his cock was big enough for him to do this with ease.

"Fuck, Potter, how'd you get so big?"

"Shut up."

Draco was rubbing his cock against Potter's arsecrack and he reached down to hold himself. He ran the tip of his erection down Potter's arse, probing, rubbing, stroking. He gave himself another portion of lubricant and, still thrusting, he massaged it into Potter's arsecheeks and moved his fingers in circles until he was delving into the soft valley of Potter's arse. Potter tensed immediately. "Malfoy, stop. I don't- I haven't ever "

"Well. I have." Draco kicked at Potter's insoles, widening his stance, opening him up. He rested his chin on Potter's shoulder; Potter had frozen, both hands on his cock. "Watch," Draco said, and he dipped his fingers below, sliding them down the cleft of Potter's arse until a slight puckered rise teased at him. Firmly, Draco massaged the lubricant against Potter's arsehole, and it took about thirty seconds before Potter was pushing back against him with a moan.

God, Draco thought, as he slipped a finger inside Potter's arse, Potter must be beyond pissed. . .

The arseplay had been a blur, the expanding of that sweet tightness; Draco had Potter adjusted to three fingers, and at one point Draco had knelt and buried his face in Potter's arse, licking and sucking and blowing thin streams of air against Potter's arsehole, all the while keeping his fingers inside Potter and moving them in and out in whatever way suited him, which was to say not very gently. He rested his cheek on the rise of Potter's firm arse, rubbing there, and without warning he turned his face into Potter's back and bit down as hard as he could, actually breaking the skin in several places; Potter called out, startled. "You'll want to have that looked at," Draco said, licking at the tiny lines of blood that welled there. "The human bite harbours more germs than any other species. Draco stood, still stroking his cock with his left hand.

He didn't ask. He didn't need to. Potter hadn't objected; he'd just pushed back against Draco's touch, all the while jerking and rubbing his cock. Draco widened his stance, sliding his cock up and down until it caught against Potter's arsehole. He rubbed the area again, just to be certain, and made sure the head of his cock was slicked up. He pressed his cock into Potter's arse until the head disappeared, and then he paused, breathing rapidly. Draco grabbed Potter's shoulders for leverage and thrust forwards, burying his cock in Potter's arse.

Potter cried out and lurched forwards, dragging Draco with him, and he grasped the handles on the sink and dropped his head. "Oh fuck. . ." And he actually gagged into the sink. "Oh, fuck. . ." He looked up and Draco could see the colour had washed from Potter's face and he looked as if he might vomit.

Draco leaned over Potter's back and laced the fingers of his right hand through the back of Potter's hair. He yanked viciously, forcing Potter's head back. "Hurts, doesn't it?" Draco growled, withdrawing and then slamming right back into Potter. "Probably not what you expected. It certainly wasn't what I expected my first week in prison. Yeah, this is exactly what you need a little taste of Azkaban. . ."

"Oh fuck," Potter repeated, his face breaking out in perspiration. He didn't fuck Malfoy back, didn't grind or thrust. He clutched the sink, his knuckles white.

"Don't worry," Draco said, "I'll be fast. You are so fucking tight. . ." Draco pulled back and thrust over and over, until the familiar coiling sensation geared up in his groin and his balls tightened. Draco pulled out of Harry and quickly began wanking his cock. "Get down," he said urgently, kicking at Potter's feet. Potter's seemed to buckle and Draco repeated himself. "Get down. Get down on your knees. Look at me. . . Potter looked up at him and Draco arced into his hand and came, his white pearlescent droplets smattering Potter's face, front, and lap. Potter put his hands up to his face, drawing away strings of come.

Draco took one of Potter's fingers into his mouth, swirling and licking, sucking it clean, and Potter looked at him in surprise.

"So," Draco said, his tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip. He leaned in against Potter. "You've heard the one. . . Two wizards go into a bar. . . . "

Draco turned the page.

"And so Death took the second brother for his own. But though Death searched for the third brother for many years, he was never able to find him. It was only when he had attained great age that the youngest brother finally took off the Cloak of Invisibility and gave it to his son. And then he greeted Death as an old friend, and went with him gladly, and, equals, the departed this life." Draco closed The Tales of Beedle the Bard and placed it on Scorpius's night table. He looked down at his son. "Tired?"

"No." Scorpius yawned and rubbed at his eyes with both fists. "Are those the Deathly Hallows?"

"Yes. What did you think of that story?"

"How can anyone conquer Death?"

"Well, that's just the point. No one can."

"Which one would you want?"

"Which what?"

"Which Hallow?"

Draco smiled wryly. "The Resurrection Stone."

"Why?"

Draco was silent, but he tucked the covers in protectively around his son.

"Why?"

He took a deep breath. "I I need to tell you something."

"What?" Scorpius looked at him, inquisitive. "Are you going back to Azkaban?"

"No." At least he hoped he wasn't. "But I want to tell you why I went to Azkaban."

"You do?"

"I think you're old enough to handle it. You're ten now. What'd'you think?"

Scorpius nodded vigorously. "I told you before that I can handle it."

"I know, and I believe you."

"Why did you go to Azkaban, Draco?"

"I committed a crime. A very terrible crime. Scorpius, I killed someone."

Scorpius stared at Draco as if he were a complete stranger; his little face screwed up.

Draco panicked. He didn't know how to handle tears; Scorpius had not cried once since Draco'd been home. He'd yelled, yes, but in those instances, he had been angry, not sad. "Scorpius "

"How could you do that?"

"I didn't want to and I didn't mean to," Draco said, trying to figure out how to explain what happened to a ten-year-old. "Do you remember when I told you I made a mistake, and that I didn't listen when I should have?"

Scorpius nodded, swiping at his eyes as if embarrassed. "What if people say things? About you?"

"They do," Draco said, resting his hand on the curve of Scorpius's hip. He could see the slow, silent spread of tears on his son's pillowcase. "And they will. They will keep saying things about me for a very long time. And, likely, some people are going to say things to you about it. Remember when you told me that Violet said that only really, really bad people go to Azkaban?"

Scorpius nodded, snuffling. "But you did a really, really bad thing."

"Yes, I did."

"Who'd you " Scorpius trailed off.

"You want to know who died," Draco said.

"Yeah."

Draco brought out a small photograph album; he knew he'd be telling Scorpius about his crime tonight, and he'd come prepared. He opened the album. The first picture was of himself and Pansy, ages eleven, on Platform 9 3/4, their arms around each other's shoulders, smiling with pre-adolescent toothy grins. They were in their Hogwarts robes, the plain black ties with the Hogwarts shield on it proof that they had not yet become official Slytherins. "This," Draco said, pointing to Pansy, "is your Auntie Pansy."

"Who's Auntie Pansy?"

"Right here. She's right here. Now, she's not your aunt by blood. She's my oldest friend."

"How come I've never met her?"

"Oh, you have. You just don't remember because you were very young. Pansy was your Godmother. She was brilliant. She knew the best insults, and she was loud and a little mental in a good way, and always very fun." He let Scorpius page through the album, looking at pictures of Draco and Pansy: their first flying lesson with Pansy hanging off her broom mid-air, screaming; the Yule Ball with him in his severe black dressrobes, Pansy in frilly pink; Pansy fighting with a Niffler to take back her gold watch; Pansy with her arms flung around his neck after Draco's first win as Slytherin's Seeker; a quiet picture of Pansy turning away from the camera and looking over the lake, the giant squid splashing in the background as the sun shone off the rippling water; Pansy with antlers, bawling, during their fifth year; Draco and Pansy together, their arms around each other, shiny Prefect badges gleaming on their chests; a group picture of him and Pansy, along with Goyle, Crabbe, Theodore, Blaise, Millicent, Daphne, and Tracey, posing on the black leather couch in the Slytherin dungeons; Pansy at Draco and Astoria's wedding; Pansy on a magic carpet in Morocco, as they treasure-hunted together during the first few months of their business. "I caused Pansy's death."

"How?"

And Draco told Scorpius what had happened, what he had done, leaving out the gruesome details, of course. Draco patiently answered Scorpius's many questions. What was a gun? How did it work? Could Scorpius have one (No)? Why did it make Pansy die? Why couldn't magic make Pansy better? Where did a person go after they died? Was Pansy a ghost? What happened to someone's body once they were dead? Where was Pansy's wand? What had she been wearing? What was the weather like that day? When Pansy died were there worms straightaway? What if Pansy had become an Inferi?

It took almost an hour.

"Did it hurt?"

"I don't know for sure, but I think Pansy died so quickly that she didn't feel it."

"Why'd you pick up that Muggle thing when Mr. Burke told you not to?"

"Because I didn't like him telling me what to do. But I should have listened. Mr. Burke was right. I shouldn't have picked it up."

Scorpius looked up at Draco with longing. "Did you When you were in Azkaban Did you miss me?"

"You were all I thought about. You and your mother. When I felt as if I might go mental, I thought of you, and it kept me from losing my mind."

"Really?"

"It's true."

"Do you remember when I told you that I'd never leave you on purpose?"

Scorpius nodded.

The moment had arrived. He thought back over his own childhood, thought of what Potter'd said about Lucius, and Draco, while flawed and self-centred and, well, a tad cowardly at times, wanted to do better for his son, wanted to do better for Scorpius than Lucius had done for him. "I feel like What I mean to say is I want you to know that I didn't want to leave you. I didn't want to go to Azkaban. But the reason I went to Azkaban is because I made a really bad choice, and I didn't listen when I should have, and someone lost their life because of me. I killed Pansy. If I hadn't made that bad choice, Pansy would still be alive and I would have never left you. So, what I'm trying to say is " Draco took a deep breath; he never spoke like this not ever and the words were thick on his tongue. " I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Scorpius said, in the automatic way that children do.

"It's not okay that I left you for four-and-a-half years. That's not all right. And I'm sorry."

Scorpius looked at Draco for a very long time from where he lay in bed. His eyes were still leaking. "Thank you."

Draco nodded, highly uncomfortable. "I just wanted you to know that."

"Okay."

"Tomorrow, would you like to play Quidditch?"

"Violet's coming over tomorrow, all day."

"Do you want me to take you both to Fortescue's for ice cream?"

"Violet is lactose-intolerant."

Draco let out a huff of laughter. "Wonderful. That figures, doesn't it?" He adjusted Scorpius's covers one last time and reached for the lamp. The room went dark, the soft light from the hallway cutting a dim slice across Scorpius's carpet. "If you think of anything that you, me, and Violet can do tomorrow, you'll let me know, won't you?"

"Yes." Scorpius sounded very sleepy. "Well, I suppose Violet could play Quidditch with us. Maybe."

"You let me know in the morning, all right?"

"All right."

"Goodnight, Scorpius." Draco patted his arm.

He was almost out the door when he heard the small voice.

"Goodnight, Daddy."

MONTH THIRTEEN

Atonement

"Malfoy."

"Potter."

Harry was leaning back in his chair, the way he always did, considering Malfoy. "So."

"So."

Harry came forwards and slid Malfoy's file to the centre of his desk and flipped it open. He removed several pieces of thick, official-looking parchment plus something that looked like a certificate. He flipped the parchments around and pushed them towards Draco and handed him a quill. "Sign here, here, and here," he said, indicating where Malfoy should write. Malfoy did, taking time with each signature. "This acknowledges that you've been advised by your supervising W.H.O.M.P. Auror me that you have successfully met the requirements of W.H.O.M.P. and this petition shall be set forth to the Wizengamot for full termination of your license. Do you understand?"

"Wait." Malfoy blinked. "You're not recalling me?"

"No."

"Why not? After what happened. . . I mean, I was quite drunk I figured you'd "

Harry moved the first parchment aside. "This is an inventory of all property confiscated from you while on W.H.O.M.P. These items will be returned to you as of right now, and consist of only a previously-opened bottle of Dreamless Sleep." Harry reached into his drawer and pulled out the bottle of Dreamless Sleep and pushed it across his desktop to Malfoy. Malfoy took it up, his face disbelieving.

"You're serious?"

"I am."

"But "

Harry looked up at Malfoy. "Why are you arguing with me? I'm releasing you from your license. You're done."

"Done."

"Done."

"I'll never be done."

"Are you thinking of Pansy?"

"Yeah."

"Good. You should be. Undo your left cuff and extend your arm."

Malfoy did.

Harry pulled his wand and put the tip to the band around Malfoy's wrist. "Relashio." The metal cuff split and sprung open, and Malfoy wiggled it off his wrist, rubbing at the itchy, dry skin there that hadn't seen the sun or fresh air in over a year.

"Holy shit," Malfoy was muttering under his breath. "Holy, holy shit. . ."

Harry took the W.H.O.M.P. band from in front of Malfoy and started to move it towards the rubbish bin, but Malfoy leaned forwards and grabbed Harry's wrist. His fingers were cool and smooth, and his touch brought up the treacherous memory. Harry certainly hadn't learnt to live with it yet, so he kept it pushed far back, far away.

"I want to keep it."

"Why?" No offender before had wanted to keep their W.H.O.M.P. tracking device.

"For Pansy."

There was no rule against it. Harry shrugged. "I guess so. Here."

"Malfoy pocketed the bracelet and looked at Harry. "Is that it? Can I go?"

"Not quite." Harry pushed a third piece of parchment towards Malfoy. "Your certificate of completion."

Malfoy held it up, clearly amused. "Why, thank you, Potter. A nifty certificate all of my own. Where ever shall I hang it?"

"Wipe your arse with it for all I care," Harry said. "I'm required to issue it."

"Keep your shirt on, Potter. I was joking."

"There's one more thing."

"God, how much longer is this going to take?"

"Not much longer." Harry was pulling something out of his desk drawer again it was a long, thin box. Carefully, Harry lifted the lid.

Malfoy sucked in his breath and reached.

"Don't," ordered Potter. "Do not touch it. Put your hands in your lap and keep them there."

Malfoy obeyed, folding his hands together. Potter lifted Malfoy's hawthorn wand from the box and placed it on his desktop. Malfoy looked stunned.

"I can't give this back to you," Harry said to Malfoy, whose face fell in disappointment. "As far as the wandlore I've studied and Hermione's helped me if I give you this wand back, the allegiance of the Elder Wand will shift back to you, and I told you before I can't let that happen. The Elder Wand, Malfoy, needs to die. But what I will do is give you a choice. I could continue to keep your hawthorn wand in my vault at Gringotts and it'll stay there until my death. Or, I could destroy it."

"Destroy it?"

"Yes." Harry shifted in his seat. "I thought perhaps you'd rather see it gone than belong to me. Am I right?"

Malfoy thought for a minute. "It's my wand." He moved his fingers as close to the box as he could manage. "Destroy it. I don't want you to have it anymore."

Harry lifted the smooth, elegant wand. He held it with both hands. "Are you sure?"

Malfoy considered it for another minute. "I'm sure." He looked once more. "I remember when it chose me at Ollivanders. My new wand? It's fine. But it's never been the same."

Harry nodded. "One last check do you want me to destroy this wand? Are you positive you want me to do this?"

"Yes." Malfoy was staring. "Do it."

Harry snapped it in two, wrenching it so quickly that it was halved in an instant. He held the two pieces for a moment, the unicorn tail hair snapped and hanging limply from the centre, and then put them on his desk. "Hermione suggested the pieces be burnt. Would you like to do the honours?"

"Hell yes." Malfoy pulled his wand; he looked at Harry. "Can I am I allowed to do magic?"

"You are officially released from W.H.O.M.P. You can do whatever magic you want." Harry nodded. He gestured at the wand pieces. "Whenever you're ready."

"What about your desk?"

"A fire'll only improve it."

Draco pulled his wand and steadied his aim. "Incendio!" A jet of red light erupted from its tip and hit the broken wand; it caught fire and began burning; the hawthorn wand was quickly reduced to ash. When the fire burnt itself out, there were sooty streaks across Harry's desktop.

"Evanesco." All traces of the ash disappeared.

Harry and Malfoy regarded each other across the desk, now topped with black scorch marks where the Incendio had flared. "You're free to go," Harry said simply.

Malfoy stood, gathering his robes. He shrugged them on and turned towards Harry. "I have something for you."

"I'm not allowed to accept gifts, incentives, goods, or services from any offender I have supervised or am supervising "

"Seriously? Shut it." Malfoy withdrew a small item from his robes pocket and placed it on Harry's desk.

It was a glass phial, inside it a silvery substance swirled, its color changing from white, to grey, to sky blue.

Harry picked it up; it rolled gently in his palm. "Why?" he questioned, looking up at Malfoy. He knew exactly what memory this was.

"I don't know."

"C'mon, Malfoy. Why?"

"No," Malfoy said, shaking his head. "I don't know." He extracted a plain white business card from his pocket and slid it towards Harry.

Harry picked it up, turning it over between his index and middle fingers.

Aeternus Animus Nox

"What is this?"

"It's a memory retrieval service."

"I don't understand."

"It's in Knockturn Alley. By referral only. You have to know someone who's had a memory retrieved in order to get in." Malfoy took the card from Harry. "Quill?" Harry, still not understanding, indicated the quill on his desk that Malfoy had just used to complete his release papers. Malfoy took it up, dipped it in Harry's inkwell, and penned a perfect signature on the back. Underneath he wrote FIREWHISKY. "Here."

"Why would I need this?" Harry was completely confused.

"I don't know if you will or not," Malfoy said, doing up the front of his robes, getting ready to leave. "Aeternus Nox removes memories. It's not a memory charm, it's not Obliviate " Malfoy paused, then looked rather defiantly at Harry. " it's a darker kind of magic."

Harry frowned. "You know Dark Magic's not allowed while you're on license! For God's sake "

Malfoy smirked and leaned against Harry's desk. "What're you going to do? Recall me now? I didn't do Dark Magic, Potter. I merely partook."

"Semantics."

"Whatever." And then Malfoy's face was plain and almost questioning. "There's a series of spells and a potion "

"God." Harry brought his fist up to his forehead, shaking his head. "No illegal or illicit potions while on license. Are you completely mental one day before your license was set to expire "

"Would you relax? I'm not done."

"Wonderful." Harry rolled his eyes. "What other terms did you violate while you were at it?"

"This isn't about breaking my license. Listen to me, Potter. Aeternus Nox will completely remove a memory. There will be no trace of it. It can't be undone, like memory charms can be broken. Veritaserum won't elicit a subconscious retrieval. How do you think so many Death Eaters got away with claiming they'd been Imperiused into serving the Dark Lord? They had their memories wiped."

"Bullshit," Harry said, disbelieving. "The Ministry would shut it down "

Malfoy laughed derisively. "Aeternus Nox? It's been around since the year 447. There's tonnes the Ministry doesn't know about, Potter. That, or they turn a blind eye, because it's not just Death Eaters who want absolution. Everyone's done something. . . I don't care who you are. Everyone has something, some moment, they wish they couldn't remember." Malfoy shrugged. "Or sometimes it's a strategic decision. Guilt and ambition two very powerful motivators."

Harry let the phial of Malfoy's memory roll around in his hand again and he considered it. "Why are you giving me this? What is it?" He had thought he knew, but he needed the confirmation. But Malfoy shook his head.

"I don't know. I can't remember anymore. The memory's been wiped."

"Then why'm I holding it?"

"Because the instructions I wrote out to myself before undergoing the procedure said to give it to you."

"Let me get this straight. There's a. . . I don't even know what to call it. . . some sort of underground movement that permanently wipes memories why's it in a phial, then? The memory's not gone. It's right here."

"Because it's my memory. It belongs to me. It's my property. Aeternus Nox, yes, will purge a memory from a person, but that doesn't mean they get to keep the memories they remove. It's the witch or wizard's whose memory it was. So, they provide the memory to you in a phial and you're free to dispose of it as you like. You can dump it out, burn it, or keep it in Gringotts, for all they care. So this is my memory and I'm giving it to you. Do with it what you see fit. But I can't tell you what it is because I don't know. You can always check it in a Pensieve."

"Why would you do that?"

"I don't know," Malfoy said, letting his gaze wander above Harry's head. He stared fixedly at the clock on the wall. "I must've had my reasons. I mean, I know it has to do with that night we got pissed at the Toad In a Hole. So something must've happened then."

Harry was trying to process what Malfoy was saying. "What do you remember about that night?"

"I remember our conversation about Azkaban, about Scorpius, about 'Hermione Weasley' being the world's ugliest name "

"And?"

"I remember going to the loo. The next thing I remember is waking up at home in bed."

"And you're going to give me your memory? Why are you trusting me with this?"

"My instructions said this is what I needed to do. A side effect of the process is you lose short-term memory for a day or two before the procedure's done. That's why they have you filled out implicit instructions before they'll wipe your memory. My instructions said to give this to you."

And to his eternal discomfort, a wave of relief washed through Harry. He had done a terrible thing. He preferred to be alone with it, and to not have to share the knowledge with anyone, much less Draco Malfoy. "All right," Harry said. "And I can do anything I want with this?" He held up the phial.

"Anything."

"All right."

Malfoy handed the card to Harry. "I don't know what it is that happened, but if you want to forget it too, then here's your referral. There's a crack in the wall between the Mandrake Gallery and the Pick Your Poison pub. Run your finger down the crack seven times and incant 'Animus Nox' on the seventh swipe. The doorway'll open for you."

"Seven times," Harry said, his voice hollow.

"Seven's the most magical number." Malfoy shrugged.

"I've heard."

"Anyhow, if there's anything you want to forget. . . You give them this card. FIREWHISKY's your entrance code."

"No," Harry said emphatically. "I would never do anything like that "

Malfoy laughed. "Never say 'never' to a Slytherin, Potter."

Harry cocked his head and regarded Malfoy, at a complete loss for words.

"So, I can go?"

Harry rose and turned a hand towards the door. "You can go."

They stared at one another. Finally Malfoy rounded Harry's desk and made his way to the door. "Well, that's it, then."

"I'll see you out."

"I know the way."

"I know you do."

They walked in silence down the long corridor. Harry stopped midway; Malfoy kept walking. He was almost to the corner where he'd turn and disappear forever.

"You did okay, Malfoy," Harry said to his back.

Malfoy paused and, surprisingly, looked back. He nodded and his mouth moved, as if he meant to say something. He looked at Harry keenly for a moment and snapped his head forwards and walked the few remaining steps and disappeared around the corner. It wasn't until Harry was heading back to his office that Malfoy's voice sounded clear and strong in the corridor.

"Well, thanks."

And then Malfoy was gone.

MONTH FOURTEEN

Amends

Draco Apparated.

The day was bitterly cold, the skies charcoal grey and churning, and a frozen wind howled. He tightened his winter wool robes around his neck and pulled up the hood to protect his head as best he could, his neck and chin buried under swaths of black cashmere. Although he had only been here twice before, it was as if a gentle hand was at his back, guiding him, having him turn this way and that until Draco stopped short, recognising a towering black marble statue: the Angel of Death.

He couldn't breathe.

He gulped for air, pawing at his scarves so that they weren't covering his mouth and nose, but it didn't help. The wind bit its way up his nose, stinging his sinuses and his eyes started to water and burn as the wind whistled in his ears. Everywhere dry leaves scuttled and swirled in the air and one after another the evergreens bent sideways, swaying dangerously.

Why today had to be the day, he didn't know; he was beginning to panic. Pain shot through his heart and his chest felt tight and constricted. He simply couldn't get enough air; he was suffocating. He thought perhaps it would be easier to greet death than to flee, for he knew he certainly didn't want to live feeling like this. He walked forwards, towards the angel, walking by marker after marker, and just as he was about to reach out and touch the angel's scythe, he knew. He turned.

PANSY ROSE PARKINSON
31.05.80 25.05.11
Loving Mother
Beloved Daughter
Devoted Friend
Precious Memory

Draco moved in and touched the top of Pansy's black granite headstone, running his fingers over the rough stone there, and the thought of her forever entombed in the frozen earth, cold and captive, made his diaphragm spasm and lock and then he really couldn't catch his breath. He made to inhale, but the air stuck at his lips, and his heart pounded and he began to see spotty fuzz in his periphery. How could he leave her here?

How could he have done this?

And just before he thought he might pass out, a memory flooded his mind, so vivid it was if it had happened just yesterday. It had been during their sixth year that Voldemort was forcing his hand; the threats were coming daily, sometimes more often, and Draco had had exactly the same type of panic attack during that day's Arithmancy lesson as he was experiencing right at this moment, but he had been sixteen then, scared and alone with a burning Dark Mark. He'd slammed out of Arithmancy and had started crying the moment he had hit the corridor, never mind that there had been other students milling about. He'd fled to the closest open door, which happened to be to one of Filch's mop cupboards, and he'd sat on an upturned bucket crying so hard that he thought he'd turn himself inside out, and he'd had snot running down his face and his cheeks and face were sopping wet, and he could not stop. . . And Pansy had somehow found him sitting there in the dark. She'd quickly closed the cupboard door and performed a wicked locking charm. "Lumos," she'd said, and they sat under the soft blue glow as she'd hugged him to her, whispering Breathe. . . Breathe, Draco. . . Just breathe. . .

Whatever fist was holding him inside released him and he took in a great, shuddering breath. The frigid air filled his lungs as he gulped it in, and soon they ached as if he'd just run a mile in Antarctica.

But he was at least breathing again.

Draco stepped back and knelt, sitting back against his heels, his knees already absorbing the cold from the ground. The wind whipped and howled, but he didn't care. He drew his wand and circled it at the base of Pansy's headstone, incanting silently. He watched as green shoots curled up and across, delicate vines sprouting one on top of the other until they covered the front of Pansy's headstone. Black flowers blossomed black pansies, the rarest kind unfurling beautifully, strong and steady against the wind. Draco lifted his wand away and fished around in his pocket, drawing out his very first Slytherin house patch. He'd removed it from the album Narcissa had put together for him after his first year at Hogwarts. He'd always been mortified that his mother insisted on giving him girly mementos; however, on this day, he was grateful for it. He placed his patch against the spread of pansies and once again reached into his pocket. He laid his W.H.O.M.P. bracelet on the ground so it curled around the pointed tip of the Slytherin patch protectively. He flicked his wand. "Impervius."

He sat there for a while, indifferent to the elements, until finally he felt it was time. He removed his gloves and drew a bundle tied together with a ribbon from his other pocket.

Owlposts. From Pansy's mother.

He'd arranged them in order that morning, starting from the first letter he'd received down to the most recent one, which had come six weeks prior. He looked at Pansy's grave again and imagined she was there with him, whispering into his ear how her mother wore ungodly old-fashioned robes and warning him not to eat Mrs. Parkinson's shortbread, for it would break his teeth. It made him laugh, but the sound that came from him didn't sound like one at all. It was more a half-laugh, half-sob. But he didn't care. If there was one person he could have a moment like this in front of, it would've been Pansy.

Carefully, he slipped the first letter from the stack; he flipped it over and saw the "P" pressed into the green sealing wax there.

You'd be surprised what victim letters contain. . .

Draco slid his thumb under the flap and broke the seal. He pulled out the letter with shaking hands and unfolded it.

He began to read.

An hour later, Draco had one more stop.

He didn't have to go far. Just one headstone over, actually.

The other marker was pure white marble, pristine and innocent. He'd only been here once before, too, seventeen years before.

Bryony Elisabeth Parkinson Malfoy
14 DECEMBER 1998
Snowdrop So Still

He didn't know what might be perfect for a baby girl, so he ended up conjuring a simple living bouquet of baby's breath. In pink. Pansy had loved pink. He cast Impervius and made the promise that eventually he would bring Scorpius here; he'd kept enough unrevealed when it came to his son.

Draco and Pansy had just been kids, barely eighteen, and it had been during the summer of reckless abandon following Voldemort's death. It had been especially hot during early July that year, and he and Pansy had snuck ridiculously expensive bottles of wine from the Malfoys' cellar and had run far through the manor's grassy areas to the nearby river, and they had swam and drank and watched the sky and. . . well. They hadn't meant for it to happen.

But he had never felt that Bryony had been a mistake. She had lived for nine minutes, her thin chest concave with futile breath spasms, and Draco could hold her in one hand. She had been perfectly formed. Their parents had left him and Pansy alone to be with their daughter in the darkened room at St. Mungo's as she had exhausted her tiny life.

No, he certainly hadn't told Potter everything about him and Pansy. Even the morally corrupt had the right to their deepest secrets.

He turned into the wind; it blew his hood off and his scarf whipped wildly about his face. He didn't look back.

Draco Disapparated.

MONTH FIFTEEN

Absolution

"Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas."

Draco wandered into the formal sitting room, where they'd traditionally had their Christmas. Narcissa had gone all out the Christmas tree stretched from floor to ceiling, an enormous silver star adorning its top. Fairies danced and flitted amongst the branches; enchanted glass birds stretched their wings and preened, calling to each other with the tiniest of tinkling warbles; there had to be over a thousand ornaments hung on the tree and miniature jeweled Firecrabs lit up the tree from the inside out. And which made Draco cringe in embarassment slightly, because he had thought it was the most brilliant thing ever as a boy the Hogwarts Express chugged merrily around the base of the tree on its enchanted track weaving in and out of the piles of gifts and around the trunk of the tree, giving off puffs of steam every minute or so. The entire room had been decorated with Christmas items and garland. A fire roared in the large hearth across from the tree, and five overstuffed stockings hung from the mantel. Draco looked out the massive picture window; it was snowing heavily and all he could see was white, white, and more white.

"Happy Christmas, Dad," Scorpius said, coming into the room. He held a smaller stocking, also filled to bursting. "Granddad forgot Tuppence's stocking."

"You didn't put any items of clothing in there, did you?" asked Lucius from the couch. Draco almost laughed at his father, for Lucius had clearly just rolled out of bed, like Draco himself. A single tuft of Lucius's hair looked as if someone had ruffled it upwards and charmed it to stay that way. He looked like he had a peacock's tail on the side of his head.

"No, no clothing. Just some sweets, biscuits, a book on socks from around the world, and a mug."

"I suppose that's acceptable."

"Happy Christmas," Draco said, catching Scorpius with one arm and hoisting him up. He carried him under his arm like a board towards the fireplace.

"Dad! Put me down. I'm ten."

"I don't give a shrivelfig how old you are," Draco said, holding Scorpius up to the mantel. He waited until Scorpius laid Tuppence's stocking there and then hauled him over to the couch as Scorpius giggled uncontrollably and strained against Draco's arm with both hands. Draco tossed him onto the couch, making sure to give him a good bounce. Scorpius laughed, pink-faced. He scrambled to the edge of the couch and settled on the arm, like it were a great Abraxan. Draco plopped down next to Astoria.

"Happy Christmas," he said, kissing her gently.

She took his hand, smiling. "Happy Christmas, Draco."

"Where's Mother?" Draco asked Lucius.

Lucius rose, a bit stiffly. He was getting older. "I'll see after her. She may need help with the rest of the presents."

Draco looked at what seemed to be hundreds of gifts surrounding the tree and lining the walls. "We need more presents?" He raised an eyebrow at Lucius.

Lucius lifted his chin, staring down his nose at Draco. He was always so very stern. "Your mother wanted it to be an extra-special holiday, seeing as it's your first Christmas with us after well "

"Azkaban?" Draco supplied. "And what'd'you mean? I was here last year."

"Oh really?" Lucius asked. "Tell us one thing about last year's holiday."

Draco opened his mouth to retort, but found he really couldn't remember. "Point taken."

"Come, Scorpius," Lucius said grandly; he swept towards the door. "Let's find your grandmother and then we'll open presents."

Scorpius didn't need to be told twice. He was at Lucius's side in a flash, and Draco felt a pang of regret when Lucius reached for Scorpius's hand. Lucius had never touched Draco as a child. He watched them leave and Draco decided perhaps it was good that Lucius seemed to be mellowing with age.

He leaned into Astoria. "So, since we're alone. . ." Draco reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and pulled out a gift. Attached was a tiny card. "This is for you."

Astoria's blonde hair shone in the firelight and her cerulean eyes lit up. "Oh! Thank you." She leaned over and gave Draco a lingering kiss, and for the first time since Azkaban, his stomach fluttered and his senses tingled at her touch.

"You don't even know what it is yet," Draco said. "Read the card first."

He watched as she slid her thumb under the flap of the envelope. She extracted the tiny card. "To my dearest wife. . . " she read, smiling broadly. She opened it. "How do you stand me?" Astoria laughed out loud; it was the first genuine laugh Draco could remember from her in a very long time. "Ah, Draco," she said, looking at him, smiling, "sometimes I ask myself the same thing."

The corner of Draco's mouth lifted. "Open it."

It was a tiny present and she had the wrappings off in seconds. "Oh," she said again, once the jewellery case came into view. "Draco?"

"Go on, then. Have a look."

Astoria prised the lid open. Her eyes widened. "Oh my God " She ran her finger around the edge of the silk-lined velvet ring box, as if afraid to touch the brilliant diamond shimmering inside. "It's stunning." She just sat there dumbly, holding the ring.

"Well, you know," Draco said, buffing his nails against the front of his dressing gown, "you married me once. I was hoping maybe you'd do it again."

She was crying then. "I thought I thought you might not want to be married anymore at all."

"What, are you mad? Look at you you're brilliant. Who wouldn't want to be married to you?"

"Really? Because the last year's been so terr "

"It's over. It's behind us." He took up her hand. "So? Marry me?"

"Of course yes!"

She threw both arms around him and buried her face in the crook of his neck, and he held her tight and looked past her and out the large window, and thought for the first time that perhaps the future wasn't as stained as he'd believed.

It was far past midnight.

Getting Scorpius to bed had been a nightmare. Scorpius, stuffed full of chocolate frogs, Bertie Botts, sugar quills, rich holiday food and desserts, had been like a Billywig in the house all day, a bright blond blur as he'd raced around. Even an hour out in the snow playing with Draco hadn't tired him out. At half twelve in the morning, after a full-blown tantrum, he'd been rubbing his eyes and yawning again and again, but refused to go to bed. Draco had physically carried him to his room three times, to no avail.

"This is ridiculous," Astoria had finally said, and she'd marched into their bathroom, returning with her bottle of Dreamless Sleep. "For heaven's sakes, he'll implode if he goes any longer."

"Did it work?" Draco asked, once she returned.

"Of course it worked. It's Dreamless Sleep."

"How'd you get him to take it?" Scorpius was notorious for refusing medicine and potions of any kind.

"I told him it was made from Father Christmas's reindeers' hooves, along with moss, dirt, and Kneazle saliva, and that he'd wake up with a full rack of moose antlers in the morning."

Antlers. Draco smiled wryly. "That's rather gross. Reindeer toenails?"

"They're hooves, love, not toenails. Quite different."

"They come from the ends of the reindeers' feet. Toenails are toenails, I say."

"Actually, if I'd told him it was made from toenails, he'd have probably liked it even better."

"Well, he is a boy. Boys are supposed to be vile."

"Happy Christmas, Draco." Astoria stood before him as he sat on the bed. She held out a small, square package, slightly larger than the one he'd given her this morning.

"Another one?" He'd already been thoroughly spoilt.

"Yes, another one. But this is it. No more after this one. It's special."

He tore into it eagerly, hurrying like a two-year-old. Draco stopped short, the box still in his hand. He stared.

"Do you like it?" Astoria asked, a tad nervously.

"A watch?"

"It does a lot of things," she said in a rush, pointing here and there at the watch's features. "It tells the time, obviously, but also the moon cycles and the positions of the constellations. I had them set it for Draco. If you need to write something down, but don't have a quill or parchment, you can whisper to the watch and it'll tell what you've said later on, once you're able to make a note. It predicts the weather, tells you your mood, can match clothing, and serves as a personal alarm should you find yourself in trouble or lost "

"Wow," Draco didn't know what else to say.

"It understands English, French, Mermish, and Chinese, and has the recipes for all known potions stored inside. There's a compass, a map function, and it gives directions."

"I don't need help with directions," Draco protested. "I know exactly where I'm going all of the time "

"Which is why we ended up in Uzbekistan in a Muggle yurt that one time?"

"That was not my fault Greg wrote the directions down wrong "

"There were yak hides, Draco. Yak hides."

"I'll have you know that the yak is a well-respected animal. . . in the Muggle world. . ."

"Do you like it?" Astoria asked again, clearly worried.

Draco took a good look at the watch. It was platinum with an elegant black face. Silver hands swept smoothly around the dial instead of tick-tocking with a jerk. There were two five-button sets on either side of the face, discretely fashioned so that they were barely visible, which Draco liked because it combined functionality with a pleasing aesthetic. He hated bulky, cumbersome watches with a lot of visible tools. So tacky. Pansy had known what to buy, too. "I have a watch, Astoria."

"I know you do."

"It works fine."

"I know it does."

"Not that this isn't an amazing watch because it is it's just that "

"It's just that what?"

"I ?"

Astoria took the new watch from Draco and set it onto the bed, and then she took up his right hand and smoothed her palm over the face of Pansy's watch. "Let her go, Draco."

"I can't."

"You can." Astoria had his hand between both of hers now and she rubbed at him lovingly. "If you want to, that is."

"But I don't want to." He remembered what he had told Potter that night in the pub. "It would be disloyal."

"Time doesn't stop. You're not living."

"I just " He pulled his hand away, not rudely, and let it drop into his lap. "I don't know."

"I loved Pansy, too. We all did."

"Not like I did." His throat was getting tight. He let out a long, deep breath.

"You didn't love her better, Draco. You just loved her differently."

"Does it bother you?"

"Does what?"

"That Pansy and I that we used to that we "

"No." Astoria shook her head, smiling. "Not at all."

"Why not?"

"Because you're here. With me. Now. And we have a wonderful son, and we could have a really nice life if you'd let us. If only you'd let yourself have it."

"I don't know how. I'm stuck," he admitted.

"Take this step." Astoria reached down for Draco's hand again; her hand encircled the watch Pansy had given him so many years ago. "Draco?" Her thumb was at the clasp, ready to flick it open, to undo it.

"Yeah," he said, after a moment, taking a deep breath. "Yeah, all right. Do it."

She undid the strap and slipped the watch over his hand and held it, watching him.

Draco sat there feeling off. But he finally understood that there was no way through it except to carry on.

And so he let her go.

He let Pansy go.

He let the veil drop.

Draco put on his new watch five minutes into the New Year. He thought it was fitting a new year, a new start. Over the past seven days he'd nursed a horribly depressed mood, but for reasons unknown to him he'd woken up the morning of New Year's Eve feeling . . . hopeful. He'd played with Scorpius quite a lot, renewed all his Quidditch and Dark Arts subscriptions by owl, and had even had a fairly pleasant conversation with Narcissa where she didn't seem to be ashamed of his mere existence. But the best part of the day the best came when he sat down with the Daily Prophet after dinner.

"O-ho!" he snorted. "Now that's rich."

THE BOY-WHO-LIVED IN AZKABAN PRISON * AZKABAN'S NEWEST RESIDENT * HARRY POTTER: AUROR? OR CRIMINAL?

Draco threw back his head and laughed and laughed and laughed.

He hadn't thought Potter would've had the balls to actually go through with it.

"Good show, Potter. Good show."

"I like my new watch very much," Draco said, once they went to bed.

"Well, I love my new ring. It's flawless." Astoria smirked. "All my friends are jealous."

He rolled over, right on top of her, and settled his elbows on either side of her shoulders and looked down at her until his fringe fell and tickled her forehead.

"Well," Astoria said mischievously. "Hello, Malfoy."

"Hello, Greengrass." He kissed her.

"I also like your new watch. Whoever bought it for you certainly has exquisite taste."

He was nuzzling her neck, just below her ear. "She tastes exquisite. Funny that."

She slid her hands down his back and up the rise of his arse, pulling him against her. "So, what time is it?" she whispered, smiling against his mouth.

"Time to get rid of this bloody duvet," Draco said, tugging at the covers between them.

It had been more than five years and Astoria was right: she was practically a virgin again, which had the unfortunate result of Draco lasting approximately thirteen seconds.

"Oh, fuck, I'm sorry," he said, trying not to laugh.

Astoria was giggling. "There are other things you can do. . ."

Draco rolled off onto his back, his hands laced behind his head. "In a minute. If we had a daughter," he mused, contemplating the ceiling, "what would you want to name her?"

"Are you mad?"

"What?" he said, shrugging. "I'm just asking."

She narrowed her eyes. "You're a man. Men don't care about baby names. So, what exactly are you playing at?"

"I'm just curious. Indulge me."

"Oh, I don't know, there's so many beautiful names " Astoria started. She rolled onto her side, propping her head up on her hand. "Are you Do you want to have another baby?"

"I didn't say that."

"What are you saying, then?"

"I just wondered what you might name a daughter if we had one, that's all."

"Do you want a daughter, Draco?"

"Well, I don't know. . . but, well, it's not like we couldn't afford another child. . ." He stretched out his right arm and ran his fingers through her hair, over and again, twirling one lock around his finger.

"Why now?"

"Why not?"

She rose up onto her elbow, a grin spreading. "You want another child."

"What if I do?" Draco said defensively.

"You're serious." She poked him in the side. "You want to knock me up!"

He looked sideways at her, amused. "You are a rather fine piece of arse."

She looked like the cat who'd swallowed the canary. "Think you could do it in one shot?"

"Greengrass! You're quite the tart."

"C'mon, Malfoy," Astoria said, wiggling over to him. She ran her hand right up between his thighs. "I'm sure you've got quite a backlog to work through. . ."

He inhaled sharply. "Oh, shit, keep doing that. . ."

"Anyway, to answer your question," she said, "were we to have a daughter, I think flower names is an appropriate tradition, and I'm sure you'd have no problem helping me decide on one."

"Any flower?"

"Yes, any flower, Draco."

It was like he was fifteen again; he was almost ready to go. "You're positive?"

"A name can be a wonderful tribute to a loved one. Or, we could pick a new one."

He couldn't stand it any longer. "Get on me. Now."

She laughed and dragged her hand away. "I don't think so. You already got off once tonight." Astoria lay across his belly and grabbed up his left arm and brought his hand to her mouth. "I know I'm not supposed to I know good girls shouldn't feel this way " She drew the tip of her tongue down his forearm until she was at the crook of his elbow. " but I love your Mark, Draco. And this?" Her fingers brushed over his tattooed prisoner number 24601 and she caressed him there. "This means you survived."

She was proud of him. His heart grew a little. "You like my Mark, eh?" The thought made him throb with excitement and he couldn't help himself. He buried his fingers in the hair at the nape of her neck and yanked, forcing her head back until he could see her face.

"Yes," she hissed.

"How much?"

"Oh God. . ." And now she was on top of him, and her breath was hot and steamy at his ear as she whispered, "I love it so much. . . if I could fuck it, I would. . ."

Draco flipped her over and moved up her body until they were nose to nose. "We're making a daughter. Now."

Saint Potter

Pointers: One, always win the fight, no matter who it's with. Two, trust no one. Three, the coconut biscuits aren't worth the flavour; hoard them and use them for transactions. Four, oddly enough, if you pretend to be an animal of some sort, the Dementors are less likely to bother you. Whilst I know you completely suck at Occlumency, and the mere sight of a Dementor gives you the vapours, do your best to clear your mind. Five, don't fuck anyone. Ever. Six, the friendlier guards are the most likely to gut you in the end. Stay away. Seven, keep to yourself. Eight, use your name and assets liberally; money and status talk, even inside Azkaban. Nine, if you can find someone who won't try to shag or slice your throat open in the middle of the night, you can stay warmer with two to a bunk. Finally, ten, while you're there, let every ounce of despair, of desperation, of hopelessness, of boredom, of neglect, of abandonment, of guilt, of timelessness, and of depravity in and let it eat you alive. Only then will you understand exactly what it is you are trying to save us from.

Of course, wishing you nothing but the best,

D.L. Malfoy

~ Finite ~

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

Manic Star lyrics and music by Conjure One

03.22.12 - The dark does not destroy the light; it defines it. It's our fear of the dark that casts our joy into the shadows - Bren?Brown, Ph.D., L.C.S.W. from the book The Gifts of Imperfection. I found this quote while reading, and it reminded me of what Draco says to Harry about light being meaningless without the dark to counter it. So I added it as a beginning quote.

The W.H.O.M.P. program in On License is constructed using information from the British national probation services, prison, probation, and parole systems, and license programs websites, as referenced here, here, here, and here, and from practical experience.

Draco's Azkaban prisoner number 24601 is Jean Valjean's prisoner number from Les Miserables.

All of Beetle's tales are taken verbatim from The Tales of Beedle the Bard by J.K. Rowling.

The information regarding the Thestral tail hair as the core of the Elder Wand is at J.K. Rowling's website here.

Draco's definition of a penumbra and Harry's definition of a quasar are taken verbatim from Sea and Sky's Astronomy Reference Guide.

The Wiggenweld Potion is the antidote for the Draught of Living Death.

The ghost tapping on Malfoy's head had every right to linger is inspired by a line of lyric from the song Language by Scott Matthew.

Can't look to the future; the window is stained is a lyric from the song Premonition, also by Conjure One.

I don't always listen to a lot of music when I'm writing a fic, but this time I happened to. Lumos! (Hedwig's Theme) from the Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban soundtrack; Manic Star by Conjure One (Draco); I Regret (VNV Nation Remix) by De/Vision (Draco); Headhunter (Funker Vogt Mix) by Front 242 (Harry); Premonition (featuring Jeff Martin) by Conjure One (Harry/Draco); Down on Your Knees by Nitzer Ebb (Harry/Draco); Illusion by Ashbury Heights (Harry/Draco - NSFW); Precious by Depeche Mode (Scorpius); Breathe by Erasure (Draco/Pansy); Love by Delerium (Astoria); Home by Depeche Mode (Draco/Astoria); SUCK (featuring Trent Reznor) by Pigface (Azkaban); Wounds by Hocico (Azkaban); Raw by Assemblage 23 (Azkaban); Bullet by Covenant (End) there! Have a little playlist :)

Snarkyscorp! I tried so hard to give you watersports. . . . I just couldn't manage it. I even tried having a few glasses of wine and then writing it, but I only ended up in bed at 7:30 p.m., clutching my trash can, LOL! And then I just plain ran out of time. Alas. Regarding RACK (Risk Aware Consensual Kink), that specifically refers to Draco basically doing whatever he wants sexually to Harry, and Harry accepting this, even though it ended up hurting Harry. You requested bottom!Harry and this is one interpretation of that dynamic. There was also a lot of D/s dynamics between Harry and Draco Harry having the upper hand as Draco's W.H.O.M.P. Auror, Draco having it sexually. I know canon is law for you; I took a little liberty with the Draco/Pansy storyline, with them having had a child together immediately post-Hogwarts, because, as you say, there are nineteen unaccounted years between Deathly Hallows and the Epilogue. Draco/Pansy as (at the very least) friends is consistent with my interpretation of the Hogwarts years (fellow canon h0r here), particularly Half-Blood Prince. I genuinely hope that it did not throw you. Happy holidays! ~ Mystery Writer :)

ORIGINAL PROMPTS USED IN THIS FIC:

Kinks, genres or special requests: I like strong, powerful, heroic but canon Harry, who has a darkness in him leftover from the war. I love a snarky, cowardly, smart and flawed Draco, who has a similar darkness and lots of scars. CANON is law to me, so "EWE" isn't something I'm very fond of. There are 19 unaccounted for years between DH and the Epilogue, which leaves a lot of room for filling in with H/D without necessarily dismissing Harry and Draco's kids. Fics set post-Epilogue are great, or anything post-war. I like masculine characters. Darkness, heavy kinks, emotional turmoil, good intentions gone horribly wrong and things along those lines are right up my alley. The darker, the grittier, the better. Including heavy plot, character development, Ministry plots, intrigue are great. I also like Harry and Ginny having a good relationship, cameos from Ron, Hermione, Teddy and the next gen kids, and Draco and Astoria/Asteria on good terms. I LOVE everything to do with daddy!Harry and daddy!Draco, so next gen kids being included in any/all ways (side pairings or just as family background or for plot) is FABULOUS. Kink-wise, I love: dubious consent, rough sex, partially-clothed sex, biting, bottom Harry, comeplay, Harry having a ridiculously huge cock (what?), dirty talk, bathroom sex.

Common H/D Cliches you DO enjoy: I'm not a huge fan of clich?, but Auror Harry is a great one. A Harry with his "saving people thing" is also awesome. Snarky Draco. Harry helping Draco after the war. Accidental kisses/sex where things get out of control. Draco going to Harry to get his wand back.

Era/Epilogue/Next Gen preferences: I LOVE LOVE LOVE next gen, so if you can work in their lovely children at all, please do.